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Poetry
2023
When I Say My Favorite Color is Red
S. M. Beal
I mean the reddened cheeks after
racing through a snowstorm
to get a hazelnut latte
at the small coffee shop
that’s open just four hours a day
on Tuesdays and Fridays.
I mean the crimson nail polish
that glitters on my fingertips
and makes me feel like stardom
is perhaps not as far away
as it’s always seemed
and the blooming dahlias that peek
through the soil and decide to try
sprouting despite my enduring brown thumb.
I mean lipstick kisses and sweaty brows
and bloody tampons and spicy chilis
and Miami Heat and the scream of crowds
and worn roller coaster seats and hair dye
stains in the kitchen sink and his hoodie
and that blouse that
makes me feel sexy and
all the other reasons I
haven’t given up yet.
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