"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport."
Shakespeare, "King Lear"
Did she feel the brush of winter that morning
like death combing through mud-tracked hair?
Three men in the park offered compliments,
then rough hands around her neck, a handkerchief
steeped in chloroform, the abandoned farmhouse
which smelled of old dung. No witnesses.
I kept quiet with my pen, ignored insects
on the white blanket around my knees. Hunting season
had began. My chief inspector gunned his moment
of glory together with flesh-eating larvae.
Did I really feel nails scrape my face from her torn
picture on my lap as I silenced her with ink?