Assault on Second Avenue

The woman who drinks

too much before the church social

on Saturday nights has you cornered

in the parking lot. Her husband

gone, her child dead, she leans

in the car window and takes

your hand: you are a woman her age,

you should understand.

You see that she has cut herself

somehow and the blood trickles unheeded

along the thin blade of her forearm.

Her stiff breath is close to your face,

and she has started to cry. You want to reach

over and touch your daughter who sits

beside you in the car, but your fingers

are locked white onto the steering wheel.

A bloody finger points past you

at the girl. On the way home you see

the smudge of blood on your daughter's shirt.