bitch

 through the crisp
and
percolating
mists
stealthily she
steals.
she knows these
streets
like her own
vagina.
past the gin-
shops
and the piles of
dead rags
begging for
yesterday's
meal
she glides like a
nun
her hand resting on
the coins in her
pocket
as though she were
smothering a
child.
she knows
where to find her
pimp;
where he
broods
in the
darkness.
she has ever
served
him
but last night
sliced
through her
love
like the
blade
she is
carrying
to

his

death