A small thread of smoke drifted from the lit end of her cigarette. I wondered why there were lipstick stains on her collar. Drops of wine had condensed right below her lip, As if her saliva were made of grape's blood, and she had drooled it, Slowly, and intentionally. She spoke with thick lips and heavy eyes, Slowly, and intentionally. A drawl, like cattle across the lamplight. She spoke of why the sun turns things brown, but so does the rain, And why the split ends of long hair crawl up to the scalp like spiders. I wanted the seven leaves that she held in her hand, and the glass orb below her belt, her long French nose sniffing the air for flesh of the senses. She took my hands in her mottled, veiny own And let the tears of cowhide drop onto the marble floors of her Laundry room. She read there, read crippled writers that would never scratch ink upon paper again, and she dealt out more dryer sheets Than cards. Her name is plastered in the tabloids, in the dime papers That only bored rich women read, and her sobs fill the sky with Every turn of the page.
