Sa vacherie

by kvennarad

.

.

.

.

.

In passing she says, “Ça va, Chérie?” a hand, lightly

at my shoulder, that had rested on my belly all night.

I know her ruse, I smell the poison of cut flowers in

the air, and I wait my silent, vengeful, lone moment.

.

.

.

.

.

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

Advertisements