Joanne Monte


The Betrayal

Today the drapes, for once, have been drawn and, at last, the sun has lit up the pine-dark interiors of that day you poured me wine at supper, I need now acknowledge.
I had failed to notice then, how subtly your fingers had lifted the knife to skin the lamb, how unconscionably you had cut through the leanest part of the bone, the precious flesh ripped open and steaming.  I had failed to notice how the table’s solid sheet of maple reflected the sharp glimmer of the blade and the rapid gutting, and how, afterward, you devoured the rare meat, wanting to strip everything clean, the wine spilling over like blood.  It was your last supper,
the room abandoned and the drapes drawn, but still clinging to the one ray of light in the window as though it could reach into those dark corners and deflect the desire for vengeance.



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