In death she relaxes, parts her legs willingly
Watches with a spirit's fly eyes
the white gowns hovering over her
Hands holding, knives, chisels, scalpels and saws
in a room bleached of color
He bent over her
weight feeding through one leg onto her belly
The blade flashed an echo of car light into the alley
A siren slashed the night
Too distant to be a soldier's song
The first cut forms a Y from shoulders
to sternum to her pubic bone
Rivers of blood flow into a steel gutter at table's edge
Somewhere Chopin plays a nocturne
She smelled the blood before she felt its
hydrant flood from the ear-to-ear smile on her throat
Smooth and welcomed after the rage of storm
Then the red gargle
Curvature of stomach is cut and emptied
Intestines drained in a sink
The easy way to excrete
Even the stink lounges on impervious air
Behind masks come murmers
about police awaiting what she had for dinner
Her spirit eyes didn't blink when a rat
ran over her face or later when cameras flashed
Red pools rusted thick and sticky
Dispatch radios scratched the surface of sound
Debris of Bordeaux, mesclun, escargot and green
peppercorns place her at the Encore Bistro Francais
from nine to midnight
She still sees the red wine, blood of Christ
gracefully drip from the bottle onto white linen
