Failing in the Ritual

Amy Ashton Handy

Acres of ivory satin sweat her out

and so she shines like the pearls

in the choker at her throat.

Now music compels us toward the alter laden, like her, with daisies.

I lead her: right, together, left, together, not thinking of last night –

      her wine stained teeth

      the black vomit spatter

      tile like a massacre

      sponging her face clean

      while she muttered

I don’t know I don’t know