a heart that beats
not whole, covered
in stiff ash; a hell
proper, with the best

of this city's well-fed
stock stalking my breasts,
legs, thighs. You
brought me. Their eyes

glint their hard approval,
brutal as your scars
but not as real.
You were laughing

with grey-haired Tom
when I left you standing
in the next room, trapped
in the hollow applause.

I could tell you were
starting to enjoy the too close
too much. Yet would
you tell the boys about

the other night, how
you snapped and clasped
my neck when I called
you pathetic? how

your hand gracefully
loosed from its fist
in time to crack almost
tenderly against my open

face? or the way
in which your nails
scraped against my cervix
to force out the liquid life

we both despise? I pray we
keep moving lest we
be caught. Until then,
I strike up flawed conversation

with tired fathers here
on business and try
to avoid the smoke
like our love, smothering.

Donora Hillard's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Arsenic Lobster, Deep Cleveland, Got Verse: An Anthology of Valley Poetry, HazMat Review, and The Pedestal Magazine. She is originally from northeastern Pennsylvania.