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