by Scott Porter
That night she would have slipped into a dress
that she had rented, would have fixed and later fixed
her hair, put on some lipstick, kissed
a kleenex, checked herself again in the bedroom
mirror, and smiling, blushing, left
with her new boyfriend in his sixty-six Corvette.
Instead she’s leaving at the bottom of a staircase,
where her blood gathers and blooms
like a carnation on her wrist.
Scott is an MA student at BYU with a focus in Modernist poetry.