She was best on the catwalk

She was best on the catwalk, dragging her illness down her face
Like black rags fallen of the sky, fallen
Of her wishes, fallen.
Men played dead for her and it made her sick and ill.
Playthings floated.
Ashy mascara fell from her eyes
And rolled down her neck her breasts her stomach
Laced with inverted ubiquity: her cyclic moons
Were dragged as black teeth into seas of gases:
The black car drove by.


Anatol Cordua © 2017