They say Caesar’s horses wept,a single sparrow clutching a laurelleaf frantically flapped
through the temple pursuedby birds of prey,eviscerated.
No wonder, you who know history,read portents, now sleep uneasily,blades wrapped in raw leather
tucked beneath your pillows.Morning lines at the whetstone,coffee and small chatter,
conspiratorial whispers,a dime’s blot of oil,grinding steel on stone—
small, circular motions by the innocent,gliding strokes by the elderswho’ve pierced a liver, sliced an artery,
lived to boast. The heart quickens,hand of death tickling up and downthe spine; plot, sharpen,
grind, no other sound quitelike it except for that gaspat the end of the thrust,
how flesh surrenders, invitesthe coiled twist in that finalmoment of silent betrayal.
Et tu?
And what name will you whisperin the handful of feathers kickedup by the echoing hooves.
Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash