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This poem is taken from PN Review 149, Volume 29 Number 3, January - February 2003.

Two Poems Joe Sheerin

Bloody Bedrooms

Certainly there was an altercation in that room. The concierge,
Working below, made out a man's whimper and a woman's
Cry that lasted for what may have been hours.

It was hard to say for that night she had to make love
And cook a dinner and say farewell, so her mind wasn't
Always fixed on what was going on in the flats above.

So she led the tame policeman to where the incident took place,
And, with a key pinned inside a pocket of her apron, pushed
The door open. She flung the curtains dramatically wide.
Filling the unmade and chaotic room with light of the next day,

There indeed was blood, islands of blood on the white towels,
So red as if it had been just shed that instant and carried
Some life in it and was still warm and belonged. Blood on the
White sheet of the spoiled bed where it seemed to have dripped
And congregated and might like quicksilver run before your finger.

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