to bloody underscores. Then of the scabs
crude across her drumbelly, and then
of the old floral nightgown that veils it all
so cleanly, has rendered even her
a smeared wandering.
There used to be words for this strife.
She rarely finds them now but they leave
their punctuation on her bed like laundry.
The night steepening, she gathers the pieces,
shuts her eyes. Pleads that tomorrow