I know a poem about slapping
mosquitoes against thighs
now pink from the pressure
of too many killings
now red with blood
from the now-dead mosquitoes.
I think about Rouge
and the tales in which
I’ve read about nipples
stained red
to entice lust in a lover,
to maybe entice love.
There’s a story already written
(and forgive me, I forget by who)
about the woman
who makes tortillas by
slapping the flour and water
between her red-hot thighs.
Did my grandmother own Rouge?
I remember her dresser
with the tiny sample reds
from Avon
she didn’t mind me
testing on my lips.
I recall her red-lipped stories
uncharacteristically punchy
with a glass of blush in one hand
the other dancing in the air
conducting her coarse words
into songs about conceiving on broken beds.
And I remember my grandfather’s confession
that he fell in love with her thighs first
thick and strong
the kind of thighs
destined for making babies or tortillas
under her red majorette skirt.
I have my grandmother’s full thighs
and I notice that the mosquitoes
favor biting me there.
These thighs are so sweet, so tempting
I attract unwanted attention and
I slap the beast red without guilt.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.