Lucrezia as Poetry
He’s torn the poems from your pen,
hurled them, storm-wrapped,
at your head,
a crown of thorns,
lightning blue, berry-bruised,
and spiked with laurels.
Mouth stained silent.
Eyes black sloes that fix only him.
A cold bed. An empty room.
He found you
clothed in shadows,
trochees leaking from your lips,
ink dripped from hesitant hand
onto salvaged sheet. He sees,
ah yes, Lucrezia as Poesie.
Now you must stand,
to be rearranged, bilious ribbons
writhing on your sleeve.
A finger, rapier poised, flicks
the sharpened quill. One strike,
one stabbing verse could end it all.
He paints your book closed.
Sheila Lockhart is a retired social worker and lives on the Black Isle in the Scottish Highlands with her partner and two Icelandic ponies, tending her garden and writing poetry. She has been published in Northwords Now, Nine Muses Poetry and The Aldeburgh Gazette.
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