Linda

Even Linda with the tepid shoulders and soldier's chin
can pour better red wine
when the cold holds close to the house
and the fire is loud,
she stands facing the mirror
in freckles and a dragon's nest of curly hair
pale because of an absent sun
but eager to spill wine until the drinking is done,
in the candle glow her tears fall unexposed to the stone floor
past that fragile spine of her nose
splashing under the sound of raucous laughter
in a room full of Jimmies and Joes,
would Linda could
she'd arrest from the shackles of this spectacle a quick death
after slipping the knife through the hearts of every man there in the dark
she'd slip it beneath her own breast.

TA