When it’s on your fingers, thick as paste, think blood, think Christ, think Judas, think your own life liquid seeping from the gash on the top of your head. Apply it to any canvas: paper, a photograph, a half-submerged memory you grasp at, then stab it with the spear of your mind.

It’s the color of flags flown in parades of summer days, the waitress’s name-tag color and maybe even her lipstick, if she put some on that day; it’s madder, really, than any mosquito that can’t get into your pants, it’s a lonely fire hydrant wanting even to be pissed on; it’s lake algae and horror-movie goop, a clown’s costume, the true ruby slippered way home.

Put it on your fingers. Rub it around. Let it seep into your fingerprints. Everyone needs blood on their hands.