“It’s rare”, my friend explains, tuberous red,
brilliant against brown duff,
under the green pines.
I dream it’s crammed in a glass vase
on the kitchen table.
Scarlet on crisp white cloth,
like a blood drop on a snowbank.
In the living room his pregnant wife
leans back in a chair,
takes on that bulbous form again.
Expectant, blue veined skin stretched taut,
domestic and strange as flame.