The Marionette's Revenge

She twiddled fingers
and rasped her voice
to rid his brain
of thought of choice.

Her throat, the womb
that knit her lies;
to drain disguise—

Dipping line,
downward spin—
She made him careless,
drowned in gin.

Still, he hid
the wedding ring,
a tiny but
portentous thing

And twice his wife
awoke to dread—
rumpled sheets
and lonely bed.

She watched her husband
come home to find
no suspicion,
and she was blind.

So he was soothed,
clean getaway;
free to lie
another day.

But doting wife,
ever wary,
an actress to
the man she married,

elated when
all signs converged
at Vixen’s den.
She armed herself
with kitchen knife
and knocked upon
the Devil’s door.

Handle turned,
door opened wide,
and Adult’ress thrust
down to the floor.

Blade at throat,
high heels flew
punctured skin
and lines of red

Snarls and gasps—
a shotgun blew—
the husband stood,
the Vixen dead.

And in the space
where it did cling,
was tiny, golden
wedding ring.

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