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

[barleygirl]

This is powerful, artful, & surprising. From word one, I was filled with the venomous wrath this narrator feels upon deciding, if she must be taken out, then she's going to take him out first. I love how your storyline dallies to the jovial N.O. streets as a stark contrast to all the gory underlying threads. Your ending is gloriously woven with possibilities (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[gram linski]

a tale of sadness and death but also life, as the protagonist tries to sort some kind of order knowing the end is near, the language swirls and twists, and there is reaffirming of life, in death, cool poem

[Gerald Parker]

Just reading through some your items to return the favour. You reviewed some of mine. This is so skillfully worked out, leading to a moving finish. I marvel at the imagination that has thought this up.

[Terry O'Leary]

A moving piece, well written. Well done!
Terry

[Papaya]

This is so very well written and your wonderful descriptions build such a sympathetic character that has me cheering for her strength and courage, even though she's just committed a crime. You have given her a happy ending.

[h d e rushin]

This is proof that you can do with (in) poetry, what you can do in life if life is a series of hurts and recompense . That is, everything that happens after Dickinson is confessional or after Ginsberg is not a story worth telling. But storytelling is what, ultimately, poetry is about, perhaps just in a round about way.

The scars of a scorned women are slow to heal/, but the honeysuckle still bloom. Wonderfully written/
dana

[Beccy]

Such an incredible compelling tale encapsulated in a just dozen supremely well crafted stanzas. Many a best selling author, would, I am sure, give their eye teeth to possess your craftmanship.

I was both captured and captivated from first line to last.

Beccy.

[Ken Simm.]

Whatever I say here will fall woefully short of your creation. To speak to it as a moral story, or an artwork or simply a superb collection of evocative words will certainly not do this creation anywhere near its true justice.

[Neville]

Wow indeed.... Is it a book, is it a play, is it a movie?

Well it could be all these things & I for one am otherwise lost for words. I never expected to stumble across such a compelling write & can only echo some of the many positives already expressed by my reviewing predecessors. All Good Things, N

[W.k.kortas]

This is storytelling as it should be done, not only the compelling narrative but the empathy, the knowing, the use of language providing shading and depth, giving the piece the added dimension which sets the good stuff apart from the Robert Service type of fol-de-rol. Suffice it to say I wish I had written this.