Paint the Walls Red
Shalise S. Ayomloo

The bi-colored rose vines smile 
on their vigorous canes, interlaced 
to disguise a rusted metal gate. 

My eyes are on the pedals, 
pure white on the inside and deep 
red on the edges, looking 

revived under the glowing touch 
of morning dew. My brain is 
fighting this image of tranquility, 

ordering my hands to open the 
gate, to hear the cracking 
sound of the hinge. Just like 

those times in the history class, 
when my mind couldn’t reconcile the 
idea of Andrew Jackson as a 

hero with the man who removed 
the Indians from their ancestral 
​homeland. I recall pressing 

my lips firmly against each other, 
so that no sound would betray 
my skeptical thoughts. A hero 

I believed, would unite the Americans 
as hyphenated as we were- as divided 
as we are. Red Americans, White Americans, 

Black Americans, Southern Americans, Northern Americans, 
rich Americans, poor Americans, 
Republican Americans, Liberal Americans, 

disabled Americans, fill-in-the-blanks Americans. 
Now I don’t believe anymore, in 
retaliation for believing and 

not doing anything. So I look 
at the roses, the beautiful Osiria 
flowers with their red and white 

pedals, and without sparing a second 
thought for the truth they hide, 
I walk briskly to my room 
to paint the walls red.

About the Author: Shalise Ayromloo is an Economics PhD candidate at University of Illinois at Chicago. She starts her day with a phone call to her grandma and a cup of nonfat caramel macchiato. Writing poetry is not just a hobby for her. It's who she is underneath the layers of nerdiness she proudly wears every day. Her poetry has been published in Silver Apples Magazine.

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