by Meghan Hawthorn
Appearing alive. I call
that art. Her body framed by a red chair,
cigarette hanging from a limp hand and slouched to one side.
Bright red lips parted slightly, seductive eyes half-open
and glazed over under caked-on eyeliner and mascara.
She looks almost
with one boot half-off or half-on
and that expression on her face.
Her hair is a raven’s feather in the dim light.
A feather with a knife sticking out of it.