She painted white on her cheeks,
Like a cheap imitation of marrow;
She didn't need black for her eyes.
Tracing in streaks down the bruised skin in sorrow;
Remembering where she came from-
And wonders where you will be tomorrow.
Falling off stars in the night to watch
The dance below,
The rhythm beating in her skull?
The bone against bone of consummation
Beating against the floor-
Stumbling out the door to place
An empty bottle by the grave,
Because they'll taste the liquid from where it has dried
On his lips-
When they glide from the sky to meet hers.
And the sangria red
Will transfer.