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David McLansky

(5/24/1944 / New York City)

Fire Island

From a lacquered cabinet
She takes a knife,
It's polished steel
Burnished bright,
She holds the knife
Above her head
And steps in mincing
Slippered tread;
She slides the bolt
To the stairs,
Her eyes are calm,
She feels prepared,
And slowly ope's the
Cellar door
And grimly steps
Down stairs to floor;
She sees a trail
Of drops of red,
She softly steps
To where it's led:
A mound of clothes
Upon the floor,
A gust of wind
Slams the door;
Which makes the mound
To her surprise
Stagger up and start
To rise;
She stabs the demon
And as she stabs
The monster dies;
She steps outside
The bungalow,
The horizon clouds
Are hanging low;
They block the sun
High in the sky,
She's killed the man
She meant to die;
The sea gulls circle
Above the beach,
They taunt her deed
Though out of reach;
Her dress of gingham
Is stained with blood
From head to toe,
She steps into
The slate grey water
And lets the ocean
Current caught her;
A perfect face
Of porcelain
Slips below
The surface rim;
The sea gulls circle
In the sky,
How empty sound
Their mocking cry.

Submitted: Friday, June 28, 2013
Edited: Friday, June 28, 2013
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