It's that dangerous-red-feeling; that tonight,
why not make it hot? thing, and you reach
for that squeaky red leather skin-
that bright-red-slapper-red, like
the red heels you dream of; red
to topple over in; it's the scarlet shine,
red as Hepburn's lips or Marilyn's hips
in The Seven Year Itch; oh the Latino cool,
swinging-salsa-red, jalapeno-red,
ostrich feather-red; red that shouts stop-
and that hot fizz when you're chopping
and sprinkling and stirring, losing it;
thinking: damage. Thinking: Spice that's not Nice,
makes eyelids burn, nostrils sting, lips numb;
thinking: that'll shock them; that'll teach
the mother-in-law to think she's modern
about food.
On cooking with chilli peppers by Mim Darlington|Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
