red is the color in her hands before and after and always.
putting down her spear and painting her palms is patience,
henna in heeding her brother Baʿal thundered call.
she is cold and caring and can wait a night to stain her skin
and to braid her hair
while the storm strains the air and pleads she loose the rain of her sword.
and though gods and men are made as lambs in a lion’s mouth, she is made as fangs and molars
are in a lion’s mouth—
as they are made into her wreath and crown, the tooth of her spear and the point of her eye,
which sever and slaughter so she may lace unhanded fingers into her sash.
and if red is her color,
and if red is the color of love,
it is the color Death sees as she greets him, saying, ‘No more will you take my Brother.’