by Donna J. Snyder
He strangled her during a hot night of vice,
her mouth stuffed full of harsh memories. Dropped
debris on her belly and fled for hell, her heat and weight
left to disappear into the growing silence.
He found her scribbling in a smoky room with no pillow,
sang a song to Saturn and turned off the light.
Left her moaning in the dusk, brute fact
shoved into her like a broom.
Threw her songbook in the alley.
Broke her pen in three pieces.
Stripped her of the rush of blood and heat
that gives birth to memory.
Hung her by the neck of silence, her body
swinging slowly in the spiritless wind.
Fled into a silent future, bereft of dance and song.
There’s a warrant out for a wordless soul.
Nothing left to give much comfort to a sorrowful world.
Somebody killed my muse.