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| Tulips, digital photograph by Belle Koblentz © 2020 Shot with Nikon D80 |
![Folk Art Rooster [Credit: Lynne Shapiro]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8dgEaH7zPbDH_NpjT7aBydGh12Sd07mGMg1UJeFjkOCmM7qros7jnPWmKva6-c-gHSZY9yvcWcqymT8p9xFo6HhHhHaKxSKIz748aFJW6Tj3GQ_OVo6wJ-DF4V5AkeCCazRE4MzKmcOKv5ZvASQoRj5ZUQzYdTr70qE79AspIUpxwqIx6ytgJUqSk=w203-h320 "Folk Art Rooster [Credit: Lynne Shapiro]")
The photo of me in a velvet dress I wore ice skating with my mother at Rockefeller Center when I was small.
The little coat in Shindler’s List.
The neighbor’s hair (more towards the orange) of which I was jealous.
Stella’s 30-year-old, slider turtle “ears.”
My favorite pair of readers.
One of two loomed Lithuanian bookmarks that grace my writing desk.
The two-toned spine of Yi-Fu Tuan’s Passing Strange and Wonderful.
The 26 (times two) luminous leaded squares of the Dutch stained-glass doors that lead to our garden.
The timid male cardinal (due to his stand-out hue?) and his less timid, subtly colored spouse.
Brilliantly backlit, at times, the dot of color that informs us the male downy woodpecker is at the suet.
Rooftop peppers that punctuate the winter palette, strewn throughout the garden by squirrels.
Kitchen jars filled with smoked and sweet paprika.
The ristra I strung from shishitos that changed color at summer’s end.
The speckled comb of my mother’s folk art rooster that’s come to our house to stay.
_____________________________
You searched for oceans
while we lived in the desert.
The strawberries, now,
freeze-dried in my mouth.
The southern tip of the sun
glows beet red.
I saw that abnormality,
on a red-eye flight, alone.
Should I leave an apology
after the tone?
Red lipstick stains on coffee cups;
What else did I do wrong?
Did we go too far?
All I have left
are a few good pics,
of us, on my phone —
All I want is to fall
apart in your arms,
but you rode away
in your red Jaguar.
& I never saw
the thin red line,
that breakup line,
until it was too late.
“Red isn’t my color,” Nina said, over coffee, early one morning,
Not long after we first met, even though
Every color was her color.
She was — she is — one of those fortunate people who can
Wrap herself in colors and patterns that would clash on anyone else,
In fabrics and textures no one else would dream of combining,
Someone on whom everything comes together in chromatic harmony,
Who brings out the best features in every article of clothing,
Rather than the other way around.
But she won’t wear red —
Or hats, except on the coldest of days.
Years after we bought our own apartment
And decided that the time was right to refurbish the kitchen,
Nina, to my amazement, said,
“Let’s do everything in red. Red cabinets, red appliances.
I’ve always dreamed of a red kitchen.”
That sounded fine to me, but …
“You once said red isn’t your color.”
“To wear,” she said, recalling instantly our conversation
Fifteen years earlier.
“But red things, I love. Like
My red Miata, right?”
Of course. Her Miata.
Her soul-red Miata.
The Miata she coveted,
For which, if we ever splurged,
She would learn to drive.
Moments before we were to make our first red purchase —
A burgundy stove —
Nina grabbed hold of my wrist, our credit card in my hand.
“What happens,” she said, “if we get tired of our red kitchen?”
And the only red that ended up in our refurbished kitchen of
Stainless steel appliances and beige cabinets were
Porcelain tiles glazed vermilion and emblazoned with white swirls,
Randomly interspersed with blues and yellows, similarly adorned,
To disrupt the otherwise glossy white sea
Comprising the backsplash.
Several weeks ago, while leafing through a photo album
From the pre-smart phone era,
We came across a picture of Nina,
Stunning in a crimson dress — the color of joy and mystery,
A garnet pendant on a gold chain around her neck,
Her upper arms partially exposed,
Standing next to me,
At an event, we don’t recall.
After studying the picture, which suggests an elegant affair,
An occasion worth remembering,
Nina frowned,
Touched the image as if to spur her powers of recollection,
And, with a dismissive tilt of her head,
Turned towards the kitchen.
“Red’s not my color,” she said,
As if reaching that conclusion for the first time.
Then she poured herself a cup of coffee
From an auburn coffee maker that we happened upon
Only a few weeks earlier,
On a cold and snowy Sunday morning that left on her ears
A trace of frostbite rouge,
During our desperate quest to replace
The generic black, no-frills, eight-cup drip coffee maker
That had died that day, suddenly, after six years,
Filling us with a sense of urgency to act immediately,
To prevent the day, followed by the week, month, and year,
From proceeding without us,
Leaving us destined to forever lag behind the present moment.
But, more importantly, to ensure that we are sufficiently caffeinated
For our longstanding weekend ritual,
During which, over breakfast and Café Bustelo,
We share our impassioned assessments of the week gone by,
Issue “if it were up to me” proclamations,
And reveal to each other aspects of ourselves
Not discernible on the visible spectrum.
Zev Torres is a writer and spoken word performer whose work has appeared in numerous print and online publications including Breadcrumbs, The Athena Review, Great Weather for Media’s Suitcase of Chrysanthemums and I Let Go of the Stars in my Hand, Three Rooms Press’s Maintenant 6 and Maintenant 12, and the Brownstone Poets Anthologies (2010-2020). Since 2008, Zev has hosted Make Music New York's annual Spoken Word Extravaganza.
