← v2n2, Fall 2003
Poetry · Volume 2, Number 2

Margie

Things turn ugly. Call it the entropy of beauty.

Just when the dance gets hot, somebody flashes a knife.

Just when the night sky emerges moonless from the smudge

Of twilight, a siren sounds and everyone goes under.

In the dark, O Jesus is the password. You said it, pal.

When the lights come on: blood on the sheets.

Come out of the closet with your blackjack

And your bottle of bleach. It's time for the wedding,

Time for the score to settle. Remember how we felt

When the trumpets lifted and riffed the midnight golden?

That moment sublimity burned its mark on our foreheads

And left us for dead. There's nothing now

But to wait for the hit man to show his decorous hand.