Saturday, May 28, 2011

How it begins

                                      Her breath is rank with booze,
                                      she fumbles a carnation
                                      into his hand, murmurs
                                      I've always fancied you.
                                      A flurry of too-sweet scent
                                      catches in his throat;
                                      she whirls and titters
                                      at someone else's joke.

Published, 2000, in Snakeskin, September issue

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