Appearances Can Be Deceiving

December 22, 2007

So little as to be overlooked.
Butter wouldn’t melt in that sweet little rosebud mouth
with that pink kitten’s tongue,
a dirty unapproved-by-mother thought
never crossed that mind, no filth ever touched that perfect skin
or so you say.

I could tell you stories of the night
she was nearly sold as a callgirl to a pimp,
who argued price in front of her
like she had no ears or mouth to speak a denial,
like she was only face and tits and cunt,
just a thing to be passed back and forth.

I could tell you about the shotgun
and the busted chinging sound
that shattered glass makes in the overpowering
silence that follows a 30-30 going off in your ear
and describe the green of the getaway truck
as the green that is almost black :
how the only color in the night
was the whiteness of that perfect skin-
someone with more poetry than sense
called her Narcissus, once, for being white,like paper.

But the story she likes least is about the night
she killed the man and how we found her,
drenched and mindless and wild. We couldn’t touch her,
not even to help because she threatened to kill us all,
and the knife was so very large and she was so vicious-
like an ermine starving in an early winter.

Her husband found out, eventually,
because in the night the obscenities
ring like shot gun blasts;
and the subconscious flows like the blood
she never remembers spilling,
whether hers or someone else’s ,
and the underworld is peopled with old crime
and deadly sins, and he has to wonder
about the lion/lamb that he lies with.