Sucker Punch
Kathryn Merwin
There is clear light in the violet hour,
when everything grows purple: crocuses split
by starlight, your amethyst necklace, bright
as a beautiful slit throat. Cobra-faced
lilacs. The memory of a wound
on your arm, blood blooming
into strange flowers. Cobwebs
of capillaries, your sweetest Malbec.
Even the birds are purple here, balancing
on the invisible trapeze of west wind.
This is a skeletal love. The dark fig
between your legs, split
at the soft core. Look at me
across the massacre. Your skin
purples with memory.