Red

After a bottle of merlot in my living room
i meet a woman who talked a man out of raping her.

            She says she said to him

                        I dare you.
                        In days, I’ll have you dead.

i pictured her in that moment –

            her hair wild, blowing into snakes
            eyes two mercurial cressets
            her warning brutal like his urges

                        It’ll be slow.

She says she said.

                        Forensic.           Painful.

She’s annoyed the wine is gone.
She looks around for something red
tells me that upon marking her words

            his festering itch for conquest shed.

            No moral arousal on his end
            just fearful, full of her
            instead, fear full

            of grenades possessed
            by survivor riots, her warnings
stir within him

            dry bone dread.
            From his breath, he smells
            his sour spirit, his toxic head.

Her story relaxes me.
i drift into wondering –

            Where does justice go
            When assaults surpass 12-hour clocks.
            When safety visits, where do wounds rest?

i retreat, into girl pure, protected.
Together, we tuck the blood to bed.

K.R. Morrison is a Bay Area rooted poet who since the pandemic, splits her time between San Francisco and a place she calls Mermaid Town, in Southern California. Aside from writing poetry, Morrison is a drummer in two female-fronted rock bands, and a high school educator who has been teaching English and Creative Writing for 18 years. Her first chapbook Cauldrons was published by Paper Press Books, wherein she received a Pushcart nomination for her poem, "Her Altar." Morrison has featured for various podcasts and curations; her poetry has been accepted into 14 new publications in 2023.