Vermilion
People swim in dark water,
The sun bears down high overhead, melting the beachgoers’ poised complexions.
There they go, the vacationers, the residents, and the birds,
all wanting to enjoy the crisp air, smelling of salt.
A woman holds a wine glass.
She takes sips on her apartment balcony.
A cat meows from above, looking down from the upper balcony.
The woman sighs and goes back to her boiling water,
her frame looks warped through the window glass.
The steaming pot wears down her stoic complexion.
She adds more salt,
then turns to the bird.
It’s a rotisserie chicken, her husband’s favorite cooked bird.
She begins to set the table on the balcony.
Small shakers of pepper and salt
sit next to the tall glasses of water.
She pauses at her reflection, quickly checking her complexion.
There is a hollow, featureless face, what a miserable piece of glass.
Her husband knocks on the door, looking sullenly through the glass.
A lone gull lands on the the veranda: “Sally, chase off this stupid bird.”
He barely spares her a glance before sitting, sullen eyes fabricating a dull complexion.
She gazing across their beachfront balcony,
at the sun setting over the water.
He’s seen it before, the sea and salt.
A hand moves across the table, passing the salt.
The shaker tips, knocking the glass.
He swears. Table drowned in water.
So much for the bird.
He throws his hands up, shouting accusations from the balcony.
She’s learned to expect it, maintaining a composed complexion.
The ocean has a foamy complexion,
Raging across the dunes, a wall of water and salt.
The woman picks up her husband’s briefcase from the balcony.
From the side falls a pair of underwear, the bright red reflected stark on the window glass.
A caw from a lonely bird
embodies guilt as it flies low over the dark water.
Her complexion’s reflection grows rouge in the glass.
The birds cry. The waves crash, brimming with bitter salt.
He sees her and shatters the other water glass. Blood spills across the balcony.