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Jacob King
The Browning School

Red

Red.
Red encroaching on consciousness.
Raw rage perverting crystalline clarity. 
That which cannot be touched is most apparent, yet
reason reminds me it cannot be. 
Enough!
Apathy allows the meek to pacify all
affect which Adam’s apple allowed,
but not I. 
Damn that abject combat; that arrant
struggle that silent solicitors smile at
as resistance recedes and pernicious fury takes hold.
“Find a center,” said Father.
Yet Fate finds fault with the fables 
our parents spoon-feed us: of trains making
passage through tunnels that have thus far
been closed.
But not my mind.
The wood wedge is in place and all its contents


Rush to the light.
Red. Like the Nile incarnadine.
Red. Like Pickett’s Charge.
Red! Like the fire within me that so desperately 
wants to hurt as recompense for indiscretion.
Red…
I resolve.
Surely someone sees the sincerity
of suppression. We were taught this. 
Silence seeps into some secret crevice that
disseminates its song through my skull. 
Silence finds its way to my center.
All is whole.
Yet at the back of my mind
Still
Red.