By Violet Goldstein
I dreamt of a hawk that stared with your predatory eyes. Waking, my cheek still felt the hard slap of your hand. A woman’s lot, you called it.
I pummelled herbs in the mortar and mixed them surreptitiously into your drink.
From my chamber’s window, I watched as you strode the courtyard to the groom holding your steed. You struck him, yanked the stallion by the reins, mounted, rode away. You left me stranded, caged.
I pictured you, as you would be soon; in seizure, slipping the saddle, lying still on soft grass. My heart leapt knowing you would not return.
Love this! Poetic murder at its best! Beautiful language.
The first and the last para read like a poem.