Soft with blood.
The arena: a sofa, a glass wall,
A bed and soft carpet in all
And a blue horizon beyond the window of a
Twelfth floor room, up there
Where you’d fear to fall.
The kitchen: metal teeth, sharp wire
Possibility about to be wrenched
Into steel grip; in dire
Bullets are only pebbles, and knives only sticks
But will has a way
Of making gold from bricks
The smell of untouched dinner
Clings to the walls, coats the air still
The sweet scent of it; the carrots
Were cooked perfectly.
The curses burst, loud, and the neighbors hear
The sound of agitation is distinct, and
Falls in every ear, but none think to move:
There is more to worry about, and
Privacy is important.
Drunken blows lack precision but swell
With contempt that hurts more
He usually calms after striking twice, a few times
At the most, but today
Is one of the few, and he rages yet
Wild eyes erupt from his face.
Tears slice her face in pitiless haste
One, two, a third, and
Like the back of her hand she knows
Their salty taste
Misery is not just felt, but also tasted.
A yelp, a thud, a pool of blood
The knife is cold, she only feels it
As she pulls it
From his still-beating heart.
The knife is warmer now.
She catches her breath, as if
For the first time
On the floor spreads crimson silk
The soft carpet, now, is softer still
On the sofa she rests, knife in hand
Smiling at how
Death remedies the ill.
The victim died on the nineteenth.