Death Knows Her Name

A knife’s alluring glint,

over folds of iridescent fabric,

whispers her name enticingly.


But the children,

little feet

on cobblestoned paths.

Her love,

endearing acerbity and

unfurled arms.

Her home,

velvet carpets and

arching ceilings.


Not today.

Not yet.


A dark glass bottle,

sloshing liquid,

fingers reaching outward.


Her home is gone,

reduced to antiquated ruins.

But the children,

frightened faces huddling close.

And her love,

depending on her resilience.


Not today. 

Not yet.


An open window,

one final breath waiting below.


The children’s fading tears,

her love’s paramount promise,

vanishing in the dark.


It’s today.

I’ll wait no longer.