"Red, I said. Sudden, red."

What does this mean?

I do not mean to say these things.
I do not say these things.

They look at me and try to spoon the answer
out from under my eyelids,
from the gums of my teeth -
finding the kind of red
which does not describe
the curtain, or the bedspread.
A shade, not explained
through poetic calculation.

This logic resists
the logic of falling things.
It climbs into the hidden
orifices of my face,
pressing into darknesses
not found until
their gaze has been shut out.