To a Scorned Writer

To a Scorned Writer
Victoria Walls

I never saw
her black lingerie, her nine-inch heels,
her oppressive smear, but

I watched Death’s carmine murk
ooze and flower
out of tufted dog fur.
I heard Death moan
between a wire rope
& a coward’s throat.
I saw Death gnaw
the fat from a woman’s
sand-colored face.
I saw Death
in the rotting flesh-bowl
of a tossed pear.

Death didn’t make
time for seduction.
Death didn’t lace its legs.

It slugged into grey matter,
seeped through the eyes and mouth
with thick black pus—no lustrous
hair, no velveteen bustier.

So, what uninhibited pixie left you
to lie down with someone else?
What sultry, callous woman
oiled & left you
spread-eagled, one leg hanging
off the edge of the earth?

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