‘Three Red Things’ by C. Murray

the three red things are:

a red umbrella with a black lace trim
spoke-shattered it belongs to my mother,
does not match my abstract and faux
snaky blouson jacket,

Alfred Schütze’s The Enigma of Evil
a memento-mori from his old library,
its red cover is rain-glued-sodden.
I bind myself to a tree,

a shopping bag, berry-red
not much to say about it
is the third red thing.

And I am in the park,
moulded to the body of a tree

its roots are moving beneath my feet.
I am afraid it will tear up from the
soil’s hungry drinking as,

assumes its
almost shape,

within the silica of
this holding-skin,

beneath crystal swipe
and tungsten-lunge

into the exact point
and drain,

then seep
from the vessel-encasement,
not sustainer.

Form crystallises
until
form becomes

press-to
drop-by-drop
raindrop-and-sinew
the whole woman

not tamp-in
onto…