Black Dahlia

The setting is always haunted.
The breath within her, haunted.

Everything so gauzy and sleek.
The moon like a lazy eye,
its chrome exterior.
The jet-black flower of her hair
spreading across the pillow.

Nothing more beautiful than a line,
the singer’s husky drawl
purring like a saxophone.
Engorged on stardust and tequila,
her name glittering
in a thousand shop windows
as her mouth opens over him
like a calla lily.

Never knowing she'll become
the lurid stuff of legends,
her photos strewn
in the darkest rooms.

Her tongue forever fluent
in tales of bloated flesh.
Ditch water.