A Beautiful Girl Bleeding Poem by Lynsey Jenkins

Past reaches her.
Not a saint or emblem
of well-being, that nonetheless drops,

through mind, like a glass
nosing floor. Corner eye
sees it grip;

sifts the cord
of consciousness, a long-stirred
curtain of her act.

Some seem fewer than fact.
Less yet are rendered whole.
None console

woes ordered in time's slant.
Thus, can one afford to pick at such,
to look and pinch and pluck its flesh?

And would the glass stand of its own,
or fingers more than irritate
the old, mordant fact?