Dark Roots (Poetry)

Bottle-blonde, for all her sins —
that peroxide her undoing
Queen of Clubs yet all the cards stacked high against her —
the spotlight on a smoking gun.

Uncorked, fermented truth spilled out —
their history a perfect scandal sheet —
the violent rows — the booze — the lovers’ lies
all showing through the artifice —
a dark root giveaway.

And yes, they judged her heartless —
guilt went with bleach and that
expensive black and too-smart suit —
her bravado inappropriate —
composure set as stone.

Glamour her thin shield that hid emotion
and dulled the edge of fear
jealousy and rage fired with the bullets —
six shots for sex and death —
the end of anger — emptying the thing
left her passionless, hollow as a spent shell
so she didn’t know herself —
the trigger pulled by someone else.

If she mourned him, truly, in her cell
she kept it to herself —
held on to each long night’s secret
paced in her own darkness
measured her life in those last weeks
aware that summer would outlive her —
there would be no reprieve.

And came to whatever terms she could
with her own gods and demons
while they hammered and the scaffold rose —
the rope her shadow touching
yellow hair.