your eyes fix
themselves to her
arm.
blood was not like dew
on a spring morning
after winter
has been chased
away by a pale
sun that hangs
in the sky like a
barely-gone-yellow
lemon.
the split open
skin had not the
complexion of
a girl who has
just a dusting
of freckles on
the just-been-kissed-badly
cheeks of her face.
her overeager companion
would have even less
of the same look,
his mouth slobbery
and stumbling.
the blood had not the
taste of fruit that
is ripe and sweet
in your mouth,
tonguing it is
like tonguing a warm
corpse.

the wounds cling to flesh
like leeches set at their task,
these are not fresh, i say
and say again.