Heaven-Scent

by Mike Jewett


Brothel eyes, heaven*scent
she bleeds from the knees
on account of the cold winds.

Quiet as a mouse, blowing
in haste, filling her void
like a long-awaited
answer. Her boy, prodigal son,
sterling face but no spirit,
vacuous and clouded. She has no
memory, just a remembrance
or remedy of sorts.

Those brothel eyes again. Dour.
Lost in day’s shadow, her life not
fortune, or dream, only dust.

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