Traci Brimhall Woman On the Subway A violet blooms around her eye, the Chinese color of mourning looping the gold rind of her cornea with swollen petals, tender as her sweetheart's touch, its gentle throb cupping her fierce eye with stained flesh. Love hurts she'd tell me if I asked. Everything hurts I'd tell her if she listened, but she only juts her jaw, fiercely wedded to her misfortune, and stares like a warrior ready to defend her lover's indigo gift, this single, raw blossom.

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