She had known bitter days

 

Sin is, or sin isn't, she thinks,

icy with detachment

as she squeezes the trigger.

Payback for all the damaged years.

The afternoon is bright,

the room is silent.

Mirrors magnify and 

thoughts assemble,

as cloistered in serene order, 

she drifts away on a draught 

of simple murder.

First shot, in the groin.

He squeals like a pig, 

teeth bared, forehead veined

as fluid runs down his leg

and clouds soak up the sun

in the onset of dusk.

She laughs thinly, takes aim again

at his thumping heart.

She is slightly off target and

the slug smashes his shoulder blade,

he squirms on the oriental rug,

howling through bullet splintered bone

as she prays for pain.

He can't speak now, 

she knows this slow dance

is his last, that they are 

sharing final seconds.

This is their eucharist and 

she is giving him the gift of 

white light and eternal damnation.

She prods at his dying face

with the toe of her suede high heel,

casually lights a cigarette.

One more shot for the road...

Aims at his forehead, laughs 

and this time doesn't miss.

Calmly, she changes clothes, 

packs what she needs, then 

telephones for a cab.

Two hours later at the airport 

she reflects happily on the deed,

dressed in a gaucho jacket 

and a wide-brimmed, black Madrid hat.

Bound for New Orleans, and no way back.

In the Mardis Gras hotel room

she examines herself.

Runs slender fingers over the purple scars

that now defile her empty chest.

She remembers the words of rejection

and the lack of needful sympathy.

The cruel taunts of lost womanhood

and the solo pain of chemotherapy

whilst he sought comfort elsewhere.

She is not in remission.

The poisonous flower still blooms,

opening insidiously, inside her.

Her days are numbered,

cheap as yesterdays cloakroom tickets;
but it is carnival time
and she has come here to die

in the party atmosphere. 
First though she must sleep,
garner what little strength remains.

She wakes to the sound of flutes and drums

drifting on the willowy breeze.

Tonight she will dance again

until her feet bleed from the rough streets.

She will drink dark rum passed from 

anonymous revellers, flirt a little, 

perhaps steal one last kiss as the fiery 

mahogany spirit warms her cancerous tumours.

At dusk the sky fills with violet ash

from the crackling carnival bonfires,

she goes deep into the crowd,

cherishing every passing moment

amongst the parrot feathers and tinfoil,

the glinting diamantes and white silky blaze

as she wanders slowly back to her hotel.

From her chair on the balcony 

she can smell honeysuckle and French roses.

Can hear a choir, emotive and distant.

She leans back, closes her eyes for a moment,

listening to the flapping of linen sheets

as the maid unravels them.

They sound like the wings of a bird;

a free bird, as she quietly slips away.

Reviews

[Lydia Shutter]

WOW....could be the screenplay for a movie. No, those who have been physically or mentally abused are never in true remission. They carry it with them always and unfortunately believe they deserved it on some level. How real the scenarios you describe are. Yes, she is free....on some level. Will she ever truly be free though? Intense and powerful. Well written. Lydi**

[Lyn Anderson]

What an interesting narrative poem. I thoroughly enjoyed it -- and its different form.

[emmajoy]

This is one of the most realistic, seemingly alarming posts i've ever read in my eight plus years in the cafe. It's superb in form, content and somehow - - jump starts every sense! Read it three times, third time aloud - theatrically, and still it makes me cringe yet moves me to tears, ' ..she can smell honeysuckle and French roses. Can hear a choir, emotive and distant. She leans back, closes her eyes for a moment, listening. .. .. ' Think if I t wanted, would refer to so many phrases or stanzas but.. the writing needs be addressed with respect not multi-coloured analysis.

This would/could make a b/w movie - short, perhaps near silent. Brilliantly dark. Thank you ..

[jacob erin-cilberto]

wow, yes, like RJ said this is a novel in verse...she battles two fronts, cancer and an abusive relationship. she knows she won't beat one of them, but gets some revenge on the other...and has that one last smile to die with---

i was so caught up in this poem, wow.

j.

[R J Askew]

Marvellous stuff, there is a novel in this dramatic verse. There is glee in the slaying and a wistfulness in the final party moment. I like this dab best, as the notion of sharing one's last moments with one's assassin is darkly delightful ...

she knows this slow dance
is his last, that they are
sharing final seconds.