Eugenia Leigh

Departure

The moon sags like a low bulb
in the fog. Its glow ricochets against

freeway flares—emergency pink,
the orange of my urge to cram my hands

down your old coat pockets so the holes will pull
me through your skin, past your ribs, onto a cushion

of lung. I could fondle an artery. Sink
my ankles in your bloodstream. My fingers scratch

alphabets into your scalp, rake the curls
above your nape. Los Angeles,

witless with its arrogant lights, smacks the sky dull.
Two stars refuse to dim. They watch you try

to wipe distance from my eyes. They watch me
fidget. You fragment.