This woman,
This whore,
With her legs spread
And her face pulpy

From the beating
That helped to cause her death,
Lies sprawled in an alley.
Dog shit, vomit, and broken glass
Make a halo round her head
And the blood seeping from
Her body
Is shiny with frost
Making a shape like
Angel wings
Around her shameless
Torso.
The air in the alley bites
With cold.
And trees in the park
Nearby
Are laden with the
Lightest of frostings.
Hoar Frost
A first frost.
For her it has
Always been winter.
For her it has
Always been cold and bitter.
"She has fifty-seven dollars in
This sparkly purse.
Enough for a room, some
Food and some wine. " says
The cop who composes the
Body, surmises the scene.
"Why didn’t she just quit for
The night ?"
And the woman who
Found her sometimes
Street friend
Says
"See, now she’s quit forever.
Now she’s warm, surrounded
By blood red roses,
Loved and desired, now
She wears spring colours
And picks tulips in
The spring flower beds,
Surrounding her home.
No alleys.
No witnesses to her shame.
This woman
This whore
This friend."