Red’s Meaning

Red is not only fire — 
it is the hand left warm
after holding another too long.

It is the bruise beneath memory,
the mouth of a siren at midnight,
the fruit split open
before sweetness has permission.

Red is the language of wanting.
Roses learned it from blood,
sunsets borrowed it from endings.

A stop sign burns with it,
yet so does the first spark
inside a matchstick
before the world changes shape.

Red means hunger.
Red means warning.
Red means look at me before I disappear.

In winter it becomes a scarf
wrapped around a lonely throat.
In summer it ripens on trees
like patient hearts.

Some reds scream.
Some reds kneel quietly
inside old photographs.

And love — 
love is the strangest red of all:
half wound,
half cathedral candle,
still glowing after the prayer is over.