|Apr/May 2015 Poetry Special Feature|
Photograph by Rus Bowden
Peeling the Onion
The black-haired woman flips
a mercenary magazine
on the balcony overlooking the lido,
one hand fingering the gun
in the pocket of his robe.
Henry has retreated to his hibernaculum
leaving his weapons behind.
She rocks in his wake,
refugee from deep snow
and his coldness. Out on the water,
she watches a fisherman raise his oar
to stun a marlin, over and over,
the desire to subjugate
revealed as a wish to ruin.
The sun goes down. She puts on a red dress,
descends to the dining room.
Marlin is on the menu.
She chooses the mutton, knowing full well
that it's death on her plate either way.
Still, better not to have been a witness.