Red is a hot color,
my children’s poem reads,
like fire/like volcano/like magma
swooshing through the earth,
like roses/strawberries/hearts/
lips, and their grandfather’s red
umbrella, his favorite prop
in his photos—to contrast
the subject, for sharper focus.
I wouldn’t tell them the truth
of red—that it’s hemorrhage,
birth—and just after, placental
gushing, the color of triage—
blood spurting—from accident
or gunshot or sawmill.
trying to stop the flow,
looking for the shut-off valve
before it’s too late.
Susan Bucci Mockler’s poetry has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in a number of literary journals, including the Mid-Atlantic Review, peachvelvet, Maximum Tilt, Pilgrimage Press, Crab Orchard Review, Poet Lore, The Northern Virginia Review, Gargoyle, The Delmarva Review, The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, The Cortland Review, The Paterson Literary Review, Lunch Ticket, and Voices in Italian Americana, as well as several anthologies. Her full-length poetry collection, Covenant (With) was published by Kelsay books in 2022. She teaches writing at Howard University in Washington, D.C.