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.