…Or, The Red Coat


And through the park she went,

her thick heels sliding gracelessly across the ice; 

her soles found muck and threw it into the air, 

and above all this, only red: 

infinite perfection in the flawed drapes of deep, cunt-stuck ache.  

Her equine gallop angered other awkward ambles,

her twisted spine torsioned between heavy bags and wonky stride,

but her brazen coat beamed brightly,

across the frozen soaked acres around.


It stands to wonder how it did not see,

the fantasy of that too-red coat,

her warmer and her child’s keeper,

but no savior could it muster.


Though scarred and blackened by rubber round,

the tarnished coat lay to the ground,

its vibrance yet by sop and muck,

forever drowned and taken.


And in that mess of screech and sound,

and eyes and mouths agape around,

stood with silent screams abounding,

the infant sac unworldly exposed.


And out the fear that from silent lips gushed,

there grew the satisfaction of relief;

broken though the coat’s preternatural glow,

in its place a quieter red flowed,

from that place where her leg had been.  





P.S. Sorry for the morbidity.  It was a very traumatic experience.


1 Comment

Filed under Caterwauling, Poetry, Stories

One response to “…Or, The Red Coat

  1. Maia

    “cunt-stuck ache”?

    Wow. I like it.

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