A junkie,
an old pier,
the edge of the Mississippi River –
clenching her fists,
leaning into lemon light.
Her mouth, a bruise in sheer skin,
moves, forms a word.
The sound of her breath
floats over brown water.
She opens her hands,
small and white,
black petals swirl,
water carries them away.
The word, the only word for miles,
follows them down to the sea.