Carrying cranberries in the folds of my dress
Walking down the highstreet just before dawn.
They’re crushed and they’re leaking through my palms
Through the stiff salt cotton.
****, brilliant juices.
I’m leaning to the right:
Crunching sickening gristle and
I’ve new moles on my shoulders, marbled after
These berries.
I haven’t meant to squish them.
Has no-one noticed the blood?
I’m draped in it walking down this high street, sticky.
I’m shaking in hunger.
It’s been ten months, it’s been two weeks since I saw
The hollow rosiness of your face.
I am covered in blood, is this normal for them to see?
If I’ve killed someone they will find out eventually.