Women are bleeding in the back alleys, alcoves,
covering their breasts and babies’ heads, working
extra shifts for taxed Tampax and school vests.
They smoke to forget, smoke for an excuse
to leave the room, they are laughing, weeping
into wine in well-lit bars the right side of town.
They track themselves via satellites, weigh up stats
against taxi price. Winter draws their cages in
as lamplight pocks their path.