Nicole Tallman

Red Light

In the middle of France, there’s a desert.
It’s not real, but there’s sand in your head.
Now imagine the most pain you could possibly
feel. What color is it: is it blood or is it rust red?
Maybe you can’t smell it but trust me. Black blood
billows from the mouths of the dead. Before you
pass out, take the lake to the tea tree. Now wrap
your sad self around its sweet head. Good things
aren’t meant to be alone, darling. No matter how much
you seek silence, the elegy you wrote must be read.

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