I see a girl I once loved
In the theatre arts section of a local paper.
She’s married now and doing well in the scene –
It’s not the first time I've seen here here,
Pressed in a soft, black- ink kiss
Between home goods and social living.
She holds a burning cigarette
Between her middle and index fingers
While the rest of her palm is occupied
By the grip of a smoking, snub-nosed revolver.
The rest of her fingers are choking the metal
Of the piece that rests heavily in her small hand.
Only darkness surrounds her spotlight portrait,
The crisp outline of her body not waning.
The critics praise her body of work
Saying that she is an iconoclast in reprising
Classic roles with a
sweet modern poison
That is blasphemous
and beautiful.
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