by Zeenit Jacobs
She is the mud between blood
and blood; under his fingernails,
in the crevices of his ring…
Pendulous bulbs buzzing in
a shabby room; the Man
purposely keeps a light on…
Drawing dewy-eyes under
a black cape, behind the
curtain and the closet…
His hands and fingers begin
to speak, and a trembling moth spins
softly around a capricious lamp…