Uranium Glass by Sheila Arndt

Fat red roses bloomed out of the blue.

I picked them so they could die
in a jadite glass bottle.

Thorns snagged and made
great red gouges in my pink forearms.

Fat red drops danced the polka
On the concrete
As I played hopscotch where
Kids had marked the sidewalk with
Red hearts purple flowers green dollar signs.

They were Abraham Lincoln roses.
It was no coincidence.

The blooms were dark.
Red like the blood was when it
Congealed and stalactited
From the lidocaine and epinephrine
Injected into thumb before
I was stitched back together.

The emergency room on New Years
Is the never ending end of a bad party—
All aftermath and smudged mascara.

I’d sliced it opening a bottle of
Syrah for your dinner
already cold on the stove.

Blood dripping off the steering wheel—
The car is quiet when you’re alone.

When I think
When I think about how
When I think about how to tell it

When I think
When I think about how
When I think about how to tell it

I can only think how I am hungry.


“My Killer’s Life — Frame 4: Dirty Red Rose” image by Flickr user John Perivolaris

11755183_10155793726970484_3930078540835149781_n-2Sheila Arndt is a reader, writer, and Ph.D. candidate currently living in the Midwest. She cares about place, process, the modern and postmodern, critical theory, Americana, New Orleans, saltwater, garlic, roses, old blues, and new dreams. Her work has appeared in Gravel, Literary Orphans, and Black Heart Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @ACokeWithYou_ or visit her website at www.sheilamarndt.com.