By Leah Korican

"It's rare", my friend explains, tuberous red,
brilliant against brown duff,
pushing up
under the green pines.

I dream it's crammed in a glass vase
on the kitchen table.
Scarlet on crisp white cloth,
like a blood drop on a snowbank.

In the living room his pregnant wife
leans back in a chair,
takes on that bulbous form again.
Expectant, blue veined skin stretched taut,

domestic and strange as flame.

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