B FLAT (A PARTING)

Some days, I have a red cape

and an ear for daisies.

I have glitter polish and one long nail. 

He dances and I laugh.

Then--

Do you hear the low call?

A fog horn bleats

the bodies in the street after curfew. 

The 2AM cold spring call, a B flat tonight.

But the rain evens her out, and he

can’t resist. 

Monthly blood rags drip

from the shower rod now

that I live alone. 

An old mattress hipshot

against the wall with tan

human-colored ovals and a loose

belly where the man lay. 

All the stuffing beaten out. 

Isn’t it everywhere you can see the foot catching an edge?

The shove came way before that. 

And the scramble, one final plea

juice-sweet on concrete cooked sick in the warming sun. 

Where to go from here but head-first down the stairs?