Counterfeit dreams slashed the throat of a crimson-lipped whore.
Sticky, briny blood clung to her white throat flesh like molasses
Sweetly clinging to a child's fingers as he eats his mother's Sunday morning pancakes.
Confessions bought her only an incurable ache in her soul,
And a bloody white throat after Mass.
The air breathed heavily with sex and death as the rain
unwittingly washed away her sins.

Nancy Hill © August 1983