She for the Italian novel
in which our heroine has a list of men
she wishes to be gone, somehow.
She can’t remember,
Was it blunt force,
A trauma type of wound?
Or did she let him fall,
Not over the cliff but in the tub.
How undignified but how thrilling,
The push.
She watched her form
In the mirror,
Hair flying, he never saw it,
But she did.
Creating blunt force trauma
To his brain
With a, I don’t know what happened,
I’d looked away.
Yea at myself in the mirror
Pushing him over.
She sat on the desk,
The list under her butt cheek,
Answering the detectives questions.
Although it has the form of a
Although it has the form of a poem, this poem also reads like a novel---the same forward motion driving to its conclusion.
J-Called