Jane Ire

Her fingers trace the stab-wound, Like water circles the drain. Though she may Clean the rind and grime from under her nails, She will never wash the bloodstains from her dress. Her hair drapes her face like a black tapestry, An opaque shade, like midnight That conceals her auburn eyes. But the shame she claimed in preceding days Has left her as quickly as the blood flows Now from his newly carved cavity. His fingers lay cold, silent, and curled; He will never again feel the pleasure Of that nymphalid elegance he craved so Cruelly. Tonight his skin spun toward the pale, His horror, confusion, frozen in his expression Flaccid, limp, unsatisfied. With his belt unbuckled, jeans crumpled, His bloated face unshaven, and his gaze Fixated on the ceiling, she cannot help but notice He makes for quite an ugly corpse. Her eyes are widened in languor, With no tears to waste upon this husk. Sitting barefoot on the white kitchen tile, As if waiting for the daisies to sprout.