Prisoner of Love (for Ursula)

My long blonde hair twists
around the knife,
wiping away the blood,
a rich river of silkiness
that once merged
with my favourite mink–as blonde as me,
but that was in another life.

I gave away the mink some years ago,
its satin lining ripped–
along with a handful of barbiturates,
such things aren’t needed
in this thorn country where nothing
greets the eye,
except for the dust storm’s
stinging beauty.

Regret creeps over the threshold,
I try to be the good housewife
and sweep the floor–but I cannot keep it out.
My last act should be pristine
not messy–blood already
beads my testament.

I long for this dust of impending doom
to settle into snow,
making the rifle shots a puny echo
so I can sink into those warm troughs
of velvet purity
and never look back.

A Byzantine death would do me very well,
my body moulded into sarcophagus of stone,
its smoothness counted
in centuries–no weeping cupids at my feet,
just some out of town stranger,
curious enough to stop in his tracks
and wonder,
before moving on.

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Prisoner of Love (for Ursula)

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