They say the way you butchered Tuesday was
The same as sour milk - in the doorway, the
Way it framed you inch for inch,
You held knives like butterflies, let them go
Where they flew, effortlessly
To land with a
thud
Into the kitchen wall

I could have wrapped my hands around your
Skinny ankles, your hands will never reach
Octaves now that you've become
Frozen
You were dark in the cheeks but
Pale in the legs, and they whisper about how you ran,
So fast,
And the sun could never catch you to
Sugar your skin brown

And then you
.shattered.
Your porcelain legs
Were left for me to collect
In the dirt of
The paddock


And this isn't a noir, darling, this is something
A bit more hazy than that
That afternoon, that very silt-sifted afternoon, your hair
Caught fire from July dustflowers that blossomed
In the sky like
Blood on the
Carpet