Red

like the rug
she sat on, memorizing
the patterns, avoiding
confrontation, she chose laundry:

the warm lullabies emanated from the dryer,
rocked her in a way that she hadn’t
been in a while,
comforting, rhythmic, harsh

when the buzzer signaled the end.

Red, like the wine,
the blood, pomegranate drunk, reciting
every past promise, pointed

propaganda. He never meant a word.