Red like the fanned tail of the half-starved hawk¹ mantling²
over a cat, twelve weeks deep in drought, beak³ wet      with the eye’s sweet rot, the liver. Red like the dirt
blown loose from thirst-gagged roots, twisting in little devils      over brittle⁴ grass. Red like the contrails’ lit cords burning
across the faces of the final stars, red like the sun’s chapped      smile come bleeding back from its respite⁵. Red like the singlet
the boy wears under a sweatshirt under a black plastic bag      as he sprints⁶ every stairway in the stadium before weigh-in
trying to shuck enough sweat from his flesh to let him wrestle      smaller boys. Red like the diet pills that make him itch⁷ inside,
make him crosshatch his body with scratches livid as wet clay.      Red like the mat he drives the boys into, chin digging
at their shoulders as they flail⁸ like hooked crappies, red like the mat      that should collapse⁹ right through the gym floor’s polished slats
for how hard he’s pushing down. Red like the quarry¹⁰ brimful      with a brazen¹¹ sky, the only place he’s ever felt light
enough, floating. Red like the heads of prairie fire lining¹² the turnpike.      Red like the oil derrick’s clumsy skull¹³ rising,
falling, bowing to the hilt of its unfillable hunger.