A Public Bloom, Too Red

The woman sneezed, a sudden wet explosion

of coffee across her chin, a brown splatter,

and her face went stiff, a quick corrosion

of calm. A small, tight, public matter.

And I tasted it then, the coppery tang,

the sudden pressure, hot behind the bridge

of my nose, the unexpected bang

of a vessel bursting, over some old fridge

display, maybe, or a shelf of books.

The slow, dark bloom against the collar's white,

a shame that gathers, drawing silent looks,

a sudden, inconvenient, bloody fright.

I remember tilting back, the warm, thick dread

coating the throat, a private, crimson tide,

while the world went on, unconcerned, ahead,

and I just wanted somewhere small to hide.