Blackberry Pie

Blackberry juice

stains his mighty skin -

a summer shadow

beneath the eye.

A dripping pulp,

leftovers in her palm,

a smudge across

her dainty cheekbone.

He — a statue —

barely saw her rising, expected

her to smile and nod

and nod and smile

and hold her fists behind.

She did smile,

a grin

of smouldering fury

Raising her fist

she conducted the knife

as if she were cutting

a home-baked pie

ready to share

her sugary slice

O, how they all gasp

when you're killed by your wife.