Red Comets

the butcher wipes his hands on
his white flag of an apron, the
thumbprints of punctuation comet-like

smears she can see from across the
street

the meat, red, sheared from the bone,
white, and he takes a long drag on his
cigarette, then exhales, pluming smoke above his head

he sees her, sitting, alien,
amongst all this new brickwork, she

knows better the stairwell stinking
of cabbage and fish, the fifth coat of
chocolate brown paint flaking to reveal

plaster below

the voice billowing, wordless, above
her head, at the top of the
stairwell, she would swallow it, if she could,
just to quiet it, as a fractious child
held to her breast