red hoodie

red like blood

a thin

layer

between

this

world

and

the

demons

inside

she's small,

lithe,

a budding rose

in a garden

of carnations.

her hair is smooth,

decisively new,

but her hoodie

always remains

a perfect hue.

she hops

and skips,

pleasant

and her red hoodie

will always be his present.

She pushes her hands deeper into her pockets, tugging down so that the wind cannot blow her hood off of her tangled hair. She walks faster, pretending she doesn't feel the insistent drops seeping through her clothes. Her bag slips from her shoulder, hanging in her elbow until she removes her hand from its shelter and thrusts the large black bag back where it belongs. She has no clue where she's going, but any passerby would say she walks with a purpose. She does have a purpose, but she has no destination. She is running away.

In the distance behind her, someone stands, watching from the shelter of a large umbrella. An umbrella meant for two. The person steps forward then stops. Chasing is unwise. Either she will return, or she won't. So the person stands, merely watching, as the bright red hoodie gets splattered with water, watching it disappear into the fold of the sky.

He wore a white hoodie that day. It wasn’t his favorite, but it was heavy and the inside was soft and it would do to keep the cold off as he worked. He looked good in it, too. His black skin contrasted with the bright white and his broad shoulders filled it out nicely. He put his apartment key and his phone and his wallet in the pockets; you never put valuables in a back pocket in this neighborhood. Walking out the front door he turned right and began to walk to work.

Slinging burgers wasn’t a life, but it was a job. He was saving up for a car, though the sum kept going down whenever his mother or sister called needing help to get by. He had a second job scrapping metal on the weekends, and sometimes he could get hours parking cars when the big arena had a concert. He got by.

He was on his lunch break when it happened. He stubbed his cigarette against the brick wall in the alley behind the diner. There were men running a block down. A commotion. Police. A chase. He reached for his phone. A loud bang. Burning. Pain. His hoodie turned red as he lay in the alley, dying.

They said in the press conference it was a mistake. He matched the description. He had a hand in his pocket. It all happened so fast. He looked threatening.

Apologies. Uproar. Protests. Debate. But what does that matter to him? He can’t hear any of it. His hoodie is still red.

I lifted my red hoodie over my head to conceal myself as I shifted between the different worlds. It used to be white before they had stolen it and painted it red, smeared my reputation, and rubbed dirt into my name. I still don’t understand why they would frame me. Besides, what had I done but simply not followed their rules? I suppose those in power don’t want to hear new ideas or change the way things are done: that is always how they’ve acted anyway.

I pull my red hoodie tighter around myself, fearing my grandmother’s return. I look up at a man, who vaguely resembles a wolf.

“Come with me, please Little Red... I’ll keep you safe,” he says, smiling warmly.

“Alright my-” I gasp, looking over his shoulder. I shove him away and give him a scared smile. He looks and sees my grandmother storming towards us, growling like a mad dog.

“Goodbye, my lo-”

The Wolf

I watch my little red get dragged away, helpless. I realize she isn’t wearing her trademark hoodie, and scan the ground for it. I find it and pick it up, bringing it to my nose. Mint and vanilla... I look back at her, and she tries to smile through her tears and gives me a wave.

I wave back, knowing I’ll never see her again.

Hanging on the silver heart hook was a deep red hoodie stained with blood all over it. In the pocket was a little blue book. Where she wrote about what she saw the night before in her friend’s neighborhood. She was somewhere she should not have been and saw much too much. The blood isn’t hers She was too close when he cut the friend’s throat. She watched him drain her blood into a glass and drink it. WHAT THE HELL!!! “How did he not see me” are my first words I wrote in my blue book. I don’t understand, all of a sudden they were standing in front of me, as if it wasn’t there. and he sliced her throat and she let him. Not a scream, not a fight, she let him cut her throat and drink her. If the blood wasn’t on my hoodie, I would think I dreamed it.

How could this happen?

Athena

I smile as I hand him a little gift bag.

He smiles.

I gesture for him to open it. He pulls out a comically small keychain of a teddy, and my favourite red hoodie.

I knew he wanted a hoodie, so I gave him one. He looks at it for a moment, and I walk off.

I come back to a kiss and a smile.

I saw him wearing a red hoodie.

My

Red hoodie.

Anyway, thats how I gave my gay my hoodie.

We are things of long hours and unyeilding desolation,

Building dust, and gray. “Attire” makes a merry sound, not true

Like “laundry,” “threads,” “pairs.”

But could we be sent up through a whisper of wind

In a sudden gush, we might take flight

And yesterday’s thoughts nowehere to be found,

diminished, and forgotten, not like now

Even if we were able to find the strength,

Found the right time to make the leap,

We are soley laundry, full of holey socks

We wonder. Hope will not be lost!

Since the Red Hoddie is out of the dryer now,

We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it

this poem was inspired by kitchenette building by gwendolyn brooks