Shaking, my hands reach, aching
for warmth. The sun glares and turns
his back.
Breezes make the palms sway,
tired eyes scan the murder scene.
I sketch the criminal. Feeling
venerable, I cross my arms and leave.
Shadows cast, my running eyeliner
marks me, broken. Bright patterns
of dusk stretch among the rooted waters.
I fall to my knees, submerging cuts
and bruises into salt, I curl my fists
in defeat. Beauty dies down to sand,
brushed away.
Deidre Grotbo
