Belladonna for Belladonna, the Beautiful Woman                            

             

She slips, er, sleeps.

The potted Ivy she threw her last drops of wine in,

wilts, droops, fandangos with the breeze.

Counts its last minutes

near her headboard.

Moments between lovers–arcane truths.

Deceit, untruth, shuffle about–Othello was once trusting too.

Affections in spoken words, truth in the ellipsis.

Yesterday’s dreams of tomorrow

Illusions. Her instincts truth.

The bedroom somber

Soundless elegy, lonely light

near her headboard.

She slips.

The last lover–jealous, suspicious–drops

Belladonna in her breakfast tea

Pupils dilated, she mumbles Love you, passion in her voice. He

hears nothing. Only sees other imaginary lovers

near her headboard.

She slips.

Night seeps in. He atones. Sinks in a haze of denial.

Elsewhere

she inches towards an ultimate untimely truth,

Metallic-blue blowflies crowding in.

Truth-untruth flipping about

near her headboard.

She slips.

***