day 8

In his head, the face of an ex-lover
who yells discomfort, who eats pizza
with a knife and fork, who drives off
a boardwalk because his sister
called to tell her he was leaving
for another, younger. But now she’s gone.
She must have struggled, the police said
earlier, left nail marks on the door

and seatbelt. He only sees red.
The red of clover mites, layering
sides of railings, stairs, his hair. Clover
mites crawling into his glass
and socks like sand. As he picks
at the flakes, flicks them to the floor,
his sister’s name flashes on the phone,
but he doesn't answer—he knows
what she’ll say. In the morning,
when he looks under his fingernails,
he’ll find remnants, crusted
and scentless, half like blood.