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
