Pigeon
by Darlene Eliot
I know you killed your mother. I know how you
did it. I know when you did it. I know you’ll come for me
the day after I tell them. I know you’ll use blunt force
because that’s what you do when you’re angry. I know
you’ll laugh at everyone’s hysteria because things like this
never happen in this town. I know you’ll sit at that table,
sizing up marks as they send over drinks, watching the
screen above the bar for reporters and yellow tape.
I know you have no fear. Not even getting caught.
If the thought intrudes, it’s smothered before it surfaces,
disappearing with a toss of your hair, a change of contacts,
and two coats of mascara. You’ll look pretty on the stand,
even with rounded shoulders and non-prescription glasses
on the edge of your nose--- something to push back as you
size up the marks across the room; the ones with lined
foreheads who can’t believe what you’ve been through.
You’ll showcase your small, unmanicured hands, the faded
blue dress, the pain in the back of your neck that can’t
quite be reached. You’ll shake your head slowly,
deliberately, when they show what you did. Show it from
every angle. Show it until you’re forced to look away
because they might catch you enjoying it. It pays to wait.
You always wait. And, then you get to smile. Smile when
they come back with the words you want to hear. Words
that make you hug your attorney, drywipe your eyes, and
get ready to stroll outside.
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