God is real because Red is thick enough to paint with/ because we can use our tongues to trace the face of a demon/ when it’s dark, when we’re bored, when we need fire/ Red, not the red of a stop sign or the American flag/  but Red, a Red that’s gone sour and sweet and bitter like a pomegranate seed stuck in its shell/ or the wilted Red of my old diary’s faux leather cover/ or the Red, the almost Red, the almost more than Red/ of her lips/ Red is proof that God is real/ that God drinks the same wine/ that God laughs at dinner parties and cries after the guests have left/ that God lusts and lives and loves/ But there's another Red/ a Red that’s more than God or the Devil or a Sunburned Face/ a Red found in the scream behind stop/ in the threads of a flag/ in the heart of a pomegranate seed/ in the blood squeezed from the tanned hide of sacrificed skin/ in her throat/ in the grapes that grow from the earth/ a Red too beautiful for us to love