Pretty face and a bright smile, she moves about her little garden tending to her plants. So sweet and lovely.
Isn't she wonderful?
The neighbours grin and stare. She seemed to have that effect on everyone around her.
A statue in a museum, so gorgeous, ogled at but never touched.
Oh no! Such beauty and grace should always be left undisturbed.
Perhaps if they looked closer, they'd notice the cracks of this particular statue.
They'd notice the missing husband.
If they truly looked, they'd see past her fraudulent act.
If they looked then perhaps they could see past the innocent charade,
see past her and see it.
See the uneven dirt, the drops of blood under bushes.
Perhaps they may see her demonic smile as she waters her garden/graveyard, piles of bodies rotting underneath the deep layer of dirt, their blood dried and their bones brittle.
Perhaps if they took a look they'd find a fresh new body sitting upstairs in the bedroom, the bleach and mop already out, the metallic tang confined to the bedroom.
The missing husband wasn't missing after all.
YOU ARE READING
TRAGEDY LANE
Poetrymaybe i too am red for all the slaughter carried within me, bastard child of water, lake swelled with rotting fish. What are you searching for when you drag me from you? POETRY © nevillearts. 2022 cover . . . archaicpoets
