Loved to death is
the way it was
Silk knives were used, the paper said.
I knew them both,
warm and loving,
happy.
I saw her yesterday, she was pale
and bicycled sickly. She cried
not knowing what’d become of her life.
Charts were scattered before her, plans she’d made
unrealized.
She grips the iron bars, grey with spots of rust insignias.
She held them with both hands. Her shoulders
hunched wrinkles.
Her breath heaved and saliva caught.
Susanna stood there stone trembling staring out.
There was graffiti scrawled on the wall “I was purple,”
and “Jean B. is innocent.”
The room smelled of urine and oranges.
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I really like this poem by Andrea. It draws me in and holds me there! Good choice of a poet to feature.
Very good work, this.
Thank you for the kind words, Pris and Carter.
Excellent poem Andrea! I agree with Priss. It is a poem that draws its reader in. I especially like the punch line. “smells like urine and oranges”.