Recalling father, uncle, sons, she remembers that rage, like shame, is red.
Every act is sin, every sin is hers and, they proclaim, is red.

Some say it's a comfort to be called by name, but what if
your father's wide mouth ignites, his leaping verdict is aflame, is red?

Eye or I, be or bee, die or dye, I mishear what I never misread.
Last week I read in English a complex Turkish novel, My Name Is Red.

Her face glows crimson when she insists her cup overflows
with vengeance. Reason pales when blame is red.

Afloat in ancient music, I rest in words I don't understand.
If painterly light softens stones, I imagine any stroke outside the frame is red.

I've hated so many for minutes or days, forgiving little, forgetting much.
Penance is seldom light but my rare confession, I exclaim, is red.

I'm born of peasant stock, devoid of lord or lady or legendary fall from grace,
though a stranger once strangely advised: Behave like your surname is Red.