Tonight I boil beets and rub them with my hands to gently remove the skin. They are red, redder than I am used to. What other red is this red? Is it wine? An apple? Strawberry juice. Tomato red. The reddest red that I can think.

But nothing is this red, this purply red against stainless steel sink, yellow colander, early evening light of March through my kitchen window. Red stains my hands. Red stains my lips. My teeth. Red stains the sky when nothing is left.

I have a heart. A beet. A heart.