Son of the Accused

Black widow, they say?
Sometimes even a spider’s
snared in her web.

When I think back to that day,
I imagine the resting place
of the dead.

Not the plot where he lay,
but rather the spot where
he came to rest.
 
In that contorted sprawl
bodies assume when met
with sudden violence.

In that unblinking, graven pall,
the pulseless, dry-tongued
mask of indifference.

Blotted blood upon the wall
is from what Homicide
made its inference.

They tooth-combed the place,
cataloging every detail, 

like horticulturists.

They were convinced every trace
had  been analyzed
and autopsied.
 
Then they brought their case
by be tried by a peerless
jury of peers.

When all was said and done,
the motions had been made
and the witnesses all appeared.

The jury was almost won--
till someone remembered
they had yet

to ask her son.
 

Reviews

[John]

A poem that weaves its spider spell, drawing you in to what seems like a foregone conclusion only for the trap of the final line to be sprung. I like the unusual rhyming scheme, the wry humour of phrases such as ppeerless peers and the description of indifference as pulseless and dry tongued, a comparable state to that of the victim whose case this jury will decide. A compelling intelligent narrative.

[lee von cleef]

Praise God, Damn the torpedoes , A devil of detail ,hour glass exposed belly and no fat.

[SonoftheAccused]

This is great, definitely the type of creative thinking I was looking for.