Stacey Gallegos


Comfort

Comfort is a fiery red.
The red that flows into your livin room an a winter night,
the red my mother wears on her tender lips.
The hugs my father gives me,
just because.
He summer breze, whose breath carries the red roses' fumes onto the earth.

Comfort is my Grandmothers hot rice pudding,
steaming over my lips.

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