THE PINK CHANEL SUIT
don’t wash it, when asked
if she wanted to change, to take off
the wool skirt, the blue
lined jacket. I want them to see,
she said. Kid gloves, a blood bloom
on her wrist,
stockings. Swipe of hair
across her mouth.
In the car, she remembers
a scatter of yellow
roses, black birds rising
from the Live Oak. How the children
ran alongside as they drove past, waving.
The open windows. A man with a camera,
that opened. A raincoat. In the car,
her body covered with bone,
hair. The bright pink suit against the gray
November. And all that red inside her hands.
—from Rattle #35, Summer 2011