Red screamed to Sky—
“Why can’t I be Gold, who is cherished,
jackpot, a bull’s-eye. Honey glazed fields
and caramel skies eaten
up like a succulent mango. Gold
gets to fill the pots
on the end of rainbows,
while I am merely a member on the spectrum.
Gold is a craving, desire, a thirst,
but I am     hardly     much. Rust, decay,
a rotting radish, I weep from their bodies,
defective. I’m the polluted breath
on their polluted tongues, I scorch
their skin and blast their wicked hearts out.”

Sky whispered back—
“I look down
on the globe and there are no distinct, dazzling
metallic Yellows, but I see you,
Red, in the rose bouquets and apple trees,
in blushed cheeks, and soft
kisses. Red,
you are dewy strawberries
and strawberry bushes with ladybugs dancing
on half eaten leaves. A woven picnic
blanket, checkered in line with the adoring
couple and their glimmering hearts and their freckled
faces, rain boot hit puddle, bitten lips, lip bite cherry,
sip wine in scarlet dress, spicy pepper,
firework—
You are Red.