Self-Portrait as Yurico Eating a Strawberry

by Bailey Cohen

Red-faced and enraged, I bite into
red strawberries, my face blooming

red. I read red words in a book my father
read. All of the pages are red. All of the words a-

re distractingly read. My skin, of course, has always been
red. I spit aimlessly from my copper-filled mouth,

ready to kiss a blushing woman with my teeth stained
red. The woman is wearing a long,

red dress. Our lips are being blasphemed into
red. A thirteen-year-old niño sits cross-legged atop a

red train car holding a red cigarette with his
red blood cascading from his ever-

reddening finger. Across the street, two men drink
red wine from red cups sitting at a

red plastic table. Their house is painted
red. Behind it, a red sun sits, tinting the ocean

red. Hell is white, then suddenly a raw-meat
red. I pick at a red scab and remove it. My skin, the

red of a grapefruit. There is red, then more
red. Even the sky is red. Even the roses.

 

Image: @Christopher Hall / stock.adobe.com