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3 Red The insides of something. An answer inside a question. An unholy thing turned inside out, left quivering in the last hour of Saturnalia. The juicy, blood-­ red heart of a watermelon placed on the altar for the dead. This I know because Uncle Jesse took out his pearl-­ handled pocketknife, cut into the green rind, and plucked out a square of red meat to show me. Red is always its own proof. Rage feels red because it is the first definition of Shango. Something wounded or something healing. Fruit of the Second Coming—­ mayhaw or raspberry—­ trampled on a battlefield . We all know what blood is. Even if it’s a friend’s or stranger ’s, a woman’s or man’s, a pig’s or a bird’s, we all know. Can we believe in a god’s ichor? What kind of evidence do we need? Red on a Chinese New Year names the dragon: wild joy, uncontrollable lust, pomegranate juice on a virgin’s tongue. The color of warning. A siren drunk on moonlight. A scream at 2 a.m. A resounding silence. A dress twirling on a dance floor. The first thread of a myth about to open its mouth. The hue of ideology. A bird’s eye inside an egg. Carmine. Cinnabar. A lunatic rose. I don’t care what you say, I’m going back to Baton Rouge, she said. From Dossier 4 (2009). ...


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MARC Record
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