The color red can kill you,
something in the pigment,
but I'd prefer being done in by strawberries—
a quality fruit—than by tomatoes 
or, God forbid, a jelly roll.

I see myself plunging my hand into a tin bucket, 
seizing a strawberry by the stem,
and dangling it above my mouth, 
juice sticky on my fingertips like blood, 
and sinking my teeth into perfumed flesh: 
The cold explodes on my palate like a scream, 
stings my lips,
crinkles my tongue, 
stains my teeth.
My throat closes around it.
I swallow the sun.

Yes, a red death I can believe in. But to go tamely, 
my executioner the color gray, for example.
That would be inconceivable.

This poem first appeared in Haz Mat (Vol. 5 Issue 1), and also appeared in Daybreak (March, 1999).
Used here with the author's permission.