Sandra Yannone – Cadmium Red

Yannone LE P&W Vol 7 Nov-Dec 2025

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing 16th Anniversary Volume Seven
November- December 2025

Cadmium Red, poems by Sandra Yannone.


Cadmium Red

I open the abandoned
box of crinkled tubes
with crusted paint

brushes, stale
turpentine

chokes the air

her hands held
each of these
foiled tubes, colors

with names
I will come to love

like the child

I was once inside her
breezeway painting
an alphabet all my own

burnt sienna, cadmium
red, titanium white,

cobalt blue

one summer
we hung a gallery
in her drywalled garage

charged everyone
on the street a dollar

per view

my grandfather was first
but got in for free by virtue
of being my grandfather,

her husband, the man
who’d purchased

the supplies

that kept us together
breathing in our toxic
beauty like the pure oxygen

she would come to hate
early in my teens before

she died

plastic tubing hung from her neck
like a stethoscope dangles
toward its tired heart

like a bull’s nose ring,
pierced nostrils

still flaring,
signals its captivity,
a scene she painted
once on black velvet

& asked me to copy,
beside her in miniature,

so I did. See how

carefully she brushed
the capote waving
without surrender

in the matador’s confident
hands, the banderillas

perfectly raptured

between the shoulder
blades, the estoque
drawing near-final blood,

and the dagger, the coupe-
de grace, finishing off

her masterpiece.

My History With Cars

Glinting against the 1995 curb, the steely sky
blue of my grandmother’s Chevy, a Bel-Air
reincarnated — the same brand
as the cigarettes she smoked until the year
before I was born, until the moment
she woke to the doctor’s face insisting
she’d die from a next puff while she struggled
to breathe through the new hole in her neck —
the same car she used to teach me
how to drive the summer before third grade,
letting me steer on our Saturday morning trips
to the grocery store and the next summer
on the returns home off Maple Avenue
into Cricket Court, into the driveway of any
half-built wooden skeleton, and
switching places with me so I could practice
driving around in the privacy of the future
block. And because she taught me to use
one foot on the gas and one on the brake,
without hesitation I said yes to my history
teacher when I buckled myself into his
driver’s ed loaner and asked if I knew how
to drive, only weeks after seeing the gory
accident film from the highway patrol
in the late afternoon of his classroom,
which on other days doubled as detention.
He chuckled and had me start all over
with just the right foot, and pressing the brake
pedal to the floor, I knew I would never get
the new car my grandmother had promised
since I was nine, since she’d acquired
a portable oxygen tank and elected never
to leave the house until she died a year later,
a December boys’ basketball away game day.
I kept official score, driving to games
in the puke green Delta 88, my family’s
compromise to keep my grandfather off the roads.
Day after day, I smiled back at the polyester
car dealer seated next to my grandfather
as he promised me a car off his shifty lot
when I graduated high school
while my homework and I waited
for my grandfather to finish his drink, his
slurrings about college and good grades
and college to the other town drunk.
The line of bottles behind their heads
reversed order in the mirror spanning
the length of the bar. Sometimes I saw
my own reflection beyond them, but I couldn’t tell
whether that girl knew the smoke in all
those talks of cars and days to come.

Comet

Whatever the sky has
Given me in name

Or action, whatever
I’ve betrayed

While the night shielded
My every move,

Whatever celestial body
Streaked across the sky

To let me know
I was alive,

I could for years
Never come clean

To the fact
That I was

Alive, that I
Deserved living.

And so we come
To the green,

Gritty powder
In a shiny foil can,

Pixie dust for
whatever ailed me

As if I could sprinkle
The chalky lime

Anywhere and scrub
The problem of living

Away. Comets
Are not shooting

Stars. Or are they?
Are they more rare

Than an eclipse
Or an equally befuddling

Cosmic phenomenon?
My grandmother

Would ask me
To scrub the bathtub

Clean, then go
Over to her sister’s

And do the same.
The cleanses

Becoming ritual
After I returned

Home to where
Behind every door

The secrets
Built up

Like tree rings
Around the porcelain

Vessel. I could
Not captain

Anyone’s life,
Let alone mine.

I was not here
To scrub clean

Every aftermath
I witnessed

But did not
Speak. I could

Not use that
Household

Product to make
Everything sparkle

Like all those
Commercials

Where every
Woman smiled

Effortlessly as
She vacuumed, stars

Shooting from
Her perfect teeth.


® Sandra Yannone

Sandra Yannone (she/they), Poet Laureate of Old Saybrook, Connecticut, USA, is the author of The Glass Studio (2024) and Boats for Women (2019), by Salmon Poetry in Co. Clare, Ireland, and of the forthcoming chapbook Fire at the Big Top (MoonPath Press, June, 2026). She also is co-editor of the forthcoming anthology Unsinkable: Poetry Inspired by the Titanic (Salmon, 2026). Nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net awards, her work has appeared in Live Encounters, Ploughshares, Poetry Ireland Review, Lavender Review, and Women’s Review of Books, among many other print and online journals. Since March, 2020, she has hosted Cultivating Voices LIVE Poetry on Zoom via Facebook. Visit her at https://www.sandrayannone.com/

 

 

 

 

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