There is poetry in blood- in the veins
that licked up my spine and down
a silhouetted profile in last night's lusting whisper
and this mourning's coffee.

There is something in the way
she holds the knife-cutting
onions for tacos and
laughing for the guests, pulling

down her sleeves, adjusting
her hair in the
reflection of the sink. She looks
just fine
this way, using
these silver deposits to search
for something- perhaps
lost down the disposal
or obscured by drops
of blood from where she nicked
herself.

And she watches the blood seep and
her lines blur with
these words and
the page- or is it
her face?

It blushes.