by Louise McKenna

It looked
like a trail of merlot
or pomegranate juice
leaked from a supermarket bag.
like the edges of coins
drops of somebody's blood
were scattered on the paving stone.
Were they
from a nose, a knife wound
or the unpriced cost of
a miscarried child? They remained
for weeks,
turning to the colour
of rust. Each time I stood
at the heartbeat of the crossing
I saw
how the world marched over
those ten cent stains and no
one ever stopped to count the loss.

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