Too Much Murder


Camera flares catch her in the unawares,
Being dragged down courtroom steps,
arms held out at the elbows,
a thick, stout-jowled bailiff on either side.
She squints upward deflecting the questions
that hammer her through the wintry air.

I did it because it needed doing, she says,
because he hurt me, and slipped me
tainted euphoria, sexually transmitted doses
of ecstasy and anguish.

She stops, holding back the bull-dog men,
the adrenaline rush sex-mask glistening
in her eyes, this bottled blonde with no
justification in her voice,
He was too much murder to live, you know?

And then this killing woman,
this violator of the sacred codes,
looks skyward,
where redemption is thought to dwell,
and sighs once,
the breath of loneliness vaporizing
into crystalline wisps
before disappearing forever.

©2007 Christopher Reilley

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