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She ran through the swinging doors
blood bruising her nightgown and the
policewoman’s eye catching, squaring
with duty. :He’s coming, the halved woman
says. :No, the uncapped officer replies,
(silique sweet, asylum sanguine)
:this is a police station. And they
turn to see the doors clapping his
arrival, his hair unmuffed, his pie-face
nuggety and sure. It’s as if the world has
wronged the wrong man, and the smile
on the minds in blue, smile as the woman
shrinks and wraps a shroud of obdurate
endurance around her as he, her pernicious
foe is taken, locked behind paper walls
for a moment’s moment.