Abby Wargo
She’s naked in the bathtub, spinal ladder pinned
to rim. To be the edge, a hardened comfort.
We are all watching water pour, caress
her back that faces the crowd: susceptible, fearless.
Macbeth, a hollow consolation, enters;
for a moment, she’s revived. On his leave,
a violent cry rips free from hardy lungs
& then she’s off and charging for despair—
Her blood is on my hands. Her skin revolts in
anguish against the thrashing lights. Rapture holds
me there. She howls, so shrill it sounds redemptive.
I exit Scotland into a passive city—
Is every night like this? I feel her sigh,
as if she stands beside me.
