“Best wishes from our family to yours.”
Brutal: derived from a king slayer, warlord, philanderer,
who turned coat, turned his back, turned on
the trusting hearts hung near his own.
My sister’s brute sharpened heart, a weapon to drive
deep between the ribs of the man she once loved.
Not behind closed doors, a quiet killing.
No, a spectacle worthy of the Romans.
As our family gathered to give thanks for another year
of living, of loving, of one another.
Birth gave us front row seats in the Coliseum,
to watch a man bloodied by the ravages
of thirty years of unspoken stories.
I am the Hiritus of this moment, chronicling
what remains as Caesar shops for a new home
and the garden goes untended.
Thanks to Gold Man Review for printing this poem in their Fall 2016 issue.