That Burning Stain

The art store window, always too bright,

too eager with its promise of light.

But one tube caught me, flat and crude:

Vermillion, screaming, misunderstood.

Not quite red, not orange either,

just raw, like a wound, or fever.

That thick pigment, a squeezed-out gut,

a deep, unblinking crimson cut.

It sits there, burning, a quiet shout,

a color for things you can't talk about.

Like blood on snow, or a truth too stark.

It leaves its heavy, bloody mark.