by Emily Brink
You’re wearing a pink dress
for a man with a belly like pizza dough.
You empty everything out on the table:
lipstick, keys, wallet, name.
He takes it, swears
he’s not looking.
He stares at you, eyes
like a great white.
He straps on a black leather glove.
“Think of a scent” he says.
Already, you can smell
your own blood.
The floor is a sushi board,
your dress flipped
over your head, you
can’t see what he’s doing.
He enters like a branch, grows black wings
and flies through your city.
It is over.
You exhale through your pink veil.
Persephone grounded.
