Dogs slink around her bed in hunger. Lest you make sacred her image on a brick, on your drive or thumb, she needs to be turned twice a day plant-ish, in her deshabille. Lethargy has its roots in lethal. This is the truth you must share or die, the waves over your head, the waving you're not doing. Pride vacuums away the scraps yet nobody empties the bag. Maybe she hurts. Maybe. The dogs devour her at dusk. You have it in a book, read once, now on the computer shelf. Clever is what those dogs become, punished by crowds anxious to see the Countess' soul fly from their mouths. She wears gold and shines: sunlight. You are one of those dogs.
Copyright © 2010 by Terese Svoboda. Used with permission of the author.