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Remembering the Girl
He would always remember how blood came
from her body clinging to his cock
like paint. Her cries
he could forget. These he had stopped
anyway with a hand
sealing her mouth, pressure
to a wound. Her eyes brushing
up, down, left no mark or memory
on him. Only her blood arrested
him mid-thrust: fresh and bright
as poppies. Only this made him suck
his breath in as young girls do
the first time. Years after,
his first child’s head
was the head of his cock, slick
with blood and forcing its way along.
~ Francesca Bell
first appeared in Poet Lore
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