Un-Red

She wears red,

Fitted around her shoulders like an epaulette, Cinched at the waist like a bottle of mulled wine, Draped in a cathedral train around her bare-feet; That were polka-dotted with blisters 

From carrying too much for far too long.

She reminds me of Desdemona,

A character, a wife, a tramp, but never human! So maybe she was a witch,

Maybe sirens were witches too,

Getting back at sailors that did them wrong. Perhaps all of them were brujas, 

Daayans, 

Harpies, 

Sorceresses,

Women!

Were occultists of charms that destroyed civilizations. The hay fevers

The dry rivers

The curse givers

The gold-diggers.

They could conjure storms with their fist, Could disappear hastily, into the mist,

Could turn you to stone with a glare,

Could brew cauldrons of fresh despair

For anyone that dares to cross the line,

Read the sign,

It says NO!

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SHOUTxDS Books presents 'Slam Poetry Nights' — Episode 3

She should stop wearing red now,

Times have changed.

Witches are no longer burned at the stake! We have even replaced the 'w' with a 'b' So of cource, they must have it easy.

But she is still hurting, hunted, 

Walking with contempt in her eyes.

She is not aimless, but simply moving forward In a once-white gown now drenched scarlet She has watched over generations of witches,

From Eve to endless dawns.

She wears red,

Because her kind was left for dead.

She wears red, 

Matching her scythe and all her history left unread.

Zafna Mostafiz Arusa is an aspiring psychologist and cat owner.