Tonight's Poet Corner: Red Bile

Red Bile
by Belinda Roddie

When you blow your nose
into the rug, wipe away the
dark residue of sorrow
on your clean-trimmed denim.
Your husband heaves
and masturbates
to an old 80s porno
while the decaying flesh makes your hair
glow with decaying white
TV screen light. The art of
love does not come with a brush, nor
does the temptation of sex come
with a paperback manual with
smiley face pictures and
happy black text.
We are going to see the king tonight,
dear, hovering in a constellation
above the estranged's head,
and my tiny face
in your corduroy pants pocket
reminds you that there is more to
puddles of lactated sad sweat
and shitty futures and
sepia pasts, and your
nostrils gleaming crimson from the times you
vomited into a porcelain bowl,
hoping if you took the pills,
he'd love you again.