Blood Red Ramen
I am eating Ramen the way Grandma used to,
with a pour of tomato juice.
I didn’t even remember this was a thing she did
until recently, when I bought
a bottle of tomato juice on a whim. Somehow,
I always mourn the dead
through food. Twizzlers when my father-in-law died,
a favorite of my own father,
the red licorice a twisted communion, a prayer
my own father won’t die.
And now that Grandma’s been dead for nearly a year,
I am eating Ramen
the way she used to, with a pour of tomato juice
thick as blood.
Little Red Writhing Hood
After the day Wolf dies, he’s
the nightmare of her own devouring,
she with the large tulips and poppies,
he poised to be her first deflowering.
She sees the spies above her.
The huntsman, her grandmother
are all eyes, ears.
They force her hands.
Gather the large scissors
to make a bleeding mouth.
Swallow the large, opened blades.
Push them down a tunnel until
a large crack begins in the stomach
as a door into a house.
Transformed into a murderer.
The weight of the ending of him
like large stones, a heavy hood.
What things have dark hearts done.
She wakes again,
writhing and red.
About the author:
Trystan Popish is an American poet and essayist. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and can be found in Pleiades, The Sunlight Press, Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly, Rogue Agent Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Colorado with her husband, their toddler, two dogs, and two hairless guinea pigs. Find her at trystanpopish.com.
Photo by Nastia Petruk on Unsplash