I make the call
I do not
want to make,
to him not
her,
thinking I
need to bite the bullet
get the
worst out of the way,
confess it
all before
someone
confesses for me
Already guilty
Before I’m
even charged
the bitter
pill I need to swallow,
as he
picks up on his end
kids’
voices
maybe his
wife’s,
his tone
changing
when I
tell him,
the
implications overwhelming,
telling me
to meet with him
on Tuesday
and I’m
not relieved at the delay,
Tuesday?
Why Tuesday,
And I
picture her face
Across the
table from mine,
Her accusing
stare,
I’m in the
midst of slow
Motion suicide
The sharp
edge of the guillotine
Inches from
my neck,
And she a
cackling tricoteuse
Weaving my fate
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