their walls pale peach, eggshell
tiny flowered paper in the dining room
wood panels in the den
but then, when the boy's voice changed
and hair began to stubble his face, he painted
his own space
eleven by a dozen feet,
all scarlet as Camara rose
though the can said,
“Passion Red”
when daylight shined
on these crimson plains, his mother swore
she saw flickering flames
the boy told her there was no fire
but to extinguish her ire, he painted again,
a stark white, but in just the right light
she still saw a simpering glow
off to college he went, a full day
she spent, pressing the roller firm against his walls,
extracting every red drop that remained, until
again in perfect light, she was certain
she saw imps and fallen angels
dancing in delight
A client once told me his histrionic, Pentecostal mother believed he was beginning to worship Satan because he painted his walls red--perhaps all moms worry the devil will come to beguile their children in the night.