a brassy mouth.  a laugh spilled out like inverted mango,
slashed purple skin spill orange flesh.  and tart.
and sweet.
cuss and row, trombone inside out,
a scarlet saxophone, cymbals her lungs
a rim of gold about a tooth
a loud woman.

he comes by around nine,
the five-times baby daddy,
pulls Ericka out into the street
his knife making a dozen new vaginas
in her belly.

her slingshot voice spatters the house front walls
then stops.
a black nissan takes him away from her
neck slit

spread wide.
eyes open, bright as rain, she stays.
the street cleared quiet.
houses take two steps back.  the road opens,
waiting,

and Ericka’s throat pours red
fermented, sweet and rotten
and trails, washing the street dust down and
spilling out

rusted scarlet bitter
laughter at a festival,
fête at a funeral.

•••