Monday, 13 December 2010

Zeus's Sixty Sixth Affair

Cold glass clinks together,
grown fat with red wine and--
hands intertwine in the night
of a suburban morning.

The music and dance, chosen specifically to
endanger, and to mourn their passion is
followed by moonlight binoculars--
the wife watches from across

the barren road, unwatched like
Medusa in the shadows of a car.
She drinks a coffee; a stain upon
her white shirt. Hate bellows.

Deep breath--a kitchen knife in the
back seat. The house is silent--
wraiths writhing in the dark;
fumbling, squirming.

The wife is at the door and she
rings the bell. The wraiths
turn to stone.

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