Hammock. Red. It held us we held on I used my legs and later you knelt down. Hand. Inner knee. Shoulder tattoo. Tattoo where your heart stampedes. Later. Red glass wine glass. Sun. Red chair rocking forward. Cracked stone slabs. Stone table. Sunned stone. Sun on my naked feet. Ginko. Bamboo. Sandbox. Begonia growing out of an old chimenea. Bird bath. Sweetgum. Fronds. Nearly empty, the good bourbon. Stock pot. At last night’s crawfish boil she said. It was funny. Red wagon. Bird red as that wagon, on it. Lipstick on the end of one cigarette in a full ashtray. Fig tree. Trampoline. This red splendor. Dappled. This green shade. This place we came to by our patience. I breathe your fire. This hard hope. So hard it’s sure as all the red.
Rebecca Lindenberg is the author of Love, an Index and The Logan Notebooks, winner of the 2015 Utah Book Award. She teaches in the Creative Writing program at the University of Cincinnati.