It's the color of an unlit fireplace,
charcoal dye smeared like soot into the wool
Ceremonial paint before the skirmish
she and I will go to war.
"There's red in your beard," and she's right:
it's flecked with copper and cayanne
"It's sexy," she says.
There's red in your hair, I think
Cords of ambulance sirens hanging from her head
I drop artillery shells on her neck
we brave the minefields and trenches
and meet halfway.
Meet me halfway.
The bed becomes a battlefield and I pray
as we all know
there are no atheists in foxholes.
The morning sees rays through curtains
and the floor is lit by tattered sheets and ruffled pillowcases
digging through pockets for the casualties
The fighting is over now
and I'll never know who won.