"The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me"   Sylvia Plath

Red is a restless diva
pacing in the wings,
making an entrance
as the carmine tulips
of a get-well bouquet.

Red is a strumpet
blaspheming the temple
where caring hands
smooth pristine
beach-white bedclothes.

Red is a snooper
******* her body's
fresh wound, wearing
her flowering heart
as a throbbing corsage.