| Stacey R. Fruits |
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| Memoirs of an escaped female photographer If I were a boy, the Scarlet Ibis at my window would be red, my terra-cotta sweater, red, the palest plumb-skinned morning, the brick at my doorstep, the salmon who loves and dies in the space of an evening, a woman's sash, her breast, her hungry mouth, chile red. Since I am a girl, I see the colors dim and deepen: Burnt Sienna, Cinnamon, Flesh, scent and texture you can measure in bumps on your skin if your shutter is open for sunset and dusk and pitch black. I am a girl who does not blush for anyone. If I were a boy, my tongue would dish out red candies and stop on the fifth line, spent. And somewhere, a woman in gardening gloves the color of pumpkins in autumn sun would sit in a darkening garden and wait to be satisfied, digging and flushing from red, to red, to red. |
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