While Bleeding

In a vintage boutique on Sullivan’s Quay,

I lift a winter coat with narrow bodice, neat lapels,

a fallen hem. It is far too expensive for me,

but the handwritten label

brings it to my chest in armfuls of red.

In that year, someone drew a blade

through a bolt of fabric and stitched

this coat into being. I carry it

to the dressing room, slip my arms in.

Silk lining spills against my skin. I clasp the belt

and draw a slow breath as a cramp curls again,

where blood stirs and melts. In glass,

I am wrapped in the weight of old red:

In the mirror, the old coat blushes.

This pocket may once have sheltered something

precious — a necklace, a love letter, or

a fresh egg, feather-warm, its shell brittle

around a hidden inner glow, held loosely

so it couldn’t crack, couldn’t leak through seams,

so it couldn’t stain the dress within.