red, by Pascal Vine

I am not a silent poet

For Shuggie

i made you a small shrine of red things.

original flavour lucozade, fiery roses from kenya you might’ve thought a waste,  a card with hearts on it you would’ve hated, a single cigarette with a tan end;

it was not enough.

i swept burning red leaves to the spot where you had cardiac arrest, now lined with flowers and well wishes in the daylight. people stop to read them all day long, people who might’ve have avoided you in your big issue jacket, people you would’ve been pissed at even if you were pissed af.

the space needed to be red so people knew something had happened and it was empty and it was wrong. I dug out a single copper coin. someone in a crimson anorak held me from behind. i bashed my pallid fist into the pavement until it grazed.

because it was red on that…

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