Love in a Bar

“Sometimes love does walk in,”
says the half-drunk woman
crying at the bar
she says, ” sometimes it’s blonde,
sometimes it’s God,”
behind the counter the bar tender
smiles, reaches
and takes away her glass
“she’s here all the time,” he says
and brings the glass back, empty
but there if she needs it.

She wipes her cheeks, stained with blue mascara
I see the heart tattoo on her wrist
she turns to face me and
I scrunch up my napkin
while she stares–
like she knows,
like she sees,
the feathers on my back
the arrows in my purse
ready to pierce hearts
with the one thing she seeks.

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