Crimson water swirled down the basin
but, as if the key itself were hurt, the
bloody token stuck
I scrubbed my forehead with the nail brush as I had
scrubbed the key but this red mark would not go
away
No paint nor powder, no matter how thick or white,
can mask that red mark on my forehead
cobra-headed, funereal lilies whose white sheaths are
curled out of a flesh
the white dress; the frail child within it
more white lilies than I'd ever seen in my life before
crowned with a wreath of white roses, and a veil
of lace, the final image of his bride.
The Snow Child
'I wish I had a girl as red as blood
So the girl picks a rose; pricks her finger on the
thorn; bleeds; screams; falls
a bloodstain, like the trace of a fox's kill on the snow
. The Count picked up the rose, bowed and handed it to his wife;
'I wish I had a girl as white as snow
The Company of Wolves
the red shawl that, today, has the
ominous if brilliant look of blood on
snow
There is a faint trace of blood on his chin; he
has been snacking on his catch.
the scarlet shawl she pulled more closely round
herself as if it could protect her although it was as
red as the blood she must spill
her cheeks are an emblematic scarlet and white and
she has just started her woman's bleeding
It was a white night of moon and snow
her hair looked white as the snow outside
The Werewolf
A bloody stump
where her hand had
been
red eyes and running, grizzled chops
Wolf Alice
Her first blood bewildered her
this white dress made her shine
hey saw the white bride leap out of the tombstone
The Tiger's Bride
My tear-beslobbered father wants a rose to show that I
forgive him. When I break off a stem, I prick my finger and
so he gets his rose all smeared with blood.
This white rose, unnatural, out of season, that
now my nervous fingers ripped, petal by petal
Where my father had been red as fire, now he was
white as the snow that caked the window-pane
watching me peel down to the cold, white meat of
contract
The Lady of the House of Love
négligé of blood-stained lace
The blood on the Countess's
cheeks will be mixed with tears
When she kneels to try to gather the fragments of glass together, a
sharp sliver pierces deeply into the pad of her thumb; she cries out,
sharp, real. She kneels among the broken glass and watches the
bright bead of blood form a drop. She has never seen her own blood
before, not her own blood
a lace négligé lightly soiled with blood, as
it might be from a woman's menses, and a
rose that must have come from the fierce
bushes nodding through the window
intoxicated surge of the heavy scent of red roses
Her voice, issuing from those red lips like the obese roses in her garden
And I leave you as a souvenir the dark, fanged rose I plucked from between my thighs
'the bridegroom bleeds on this inverted marriage bed
The Courtship of Mr Lyon
the road is white and unmarked as a
spilled bolt of bridal satin
his Beauty, his girl-child, his pet, the one
white rose she said she wanted
one last, single, perfect rose that might have been the last
rose left living in all the white winter