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number 60
P O E T R Y by Meri Culp |
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| Cayenne Warning Even the pepper's skin will burn to the touch, Mom, my son says as he fingers the slim fire, the just-picked red ripeness. Be careful, he reminds, all kindness, newfound protection, as I watch him harvest the peppers, red-handed, soon-to-be a man. I want to tell him of life's red hot sting, of his grandmother's dying request for me to paint her fingernails chili pepper red, to unearth from her drawer a favorite lipstick, Revlon's Marooned, the color of black/red gardens, the deep bite of goodbye, an open wound. I want to say, I know of burning, my son, how one night, I fell hard into a sunset, slammed into a slow-blaze burn of every shade of red, learned how crimson turns scarlet, then fades, like nightfall, old chiffon , dusty and pink. But instead, I heed his advice, let him sound the warning alarm, as if I had lived my life in a gentle garden, in a place I notice is now: my son, me, our red cayennes. |