The Murder of David Rizzo

In the persona of Mary Queen of Scots

As I stare into your marbled eyes

and they start into mine,

a smile creeps onto my lips.

Not because of the nature of your death,

Or the shreds of mutilated flesh that used to be your body,

Or the ghosts of fifty-six knives that have left their grim mark on you

I do not smile for the men the held them

Or my husband, who set the pack of wolves from their den

Or my brother, who stood by and watched as they threw you down the stairs

I do not smile for my blood-splattered maids

Or the woman who will need to stain her hands and knees with your blood

Or my son, who through the walls of my skin, kicks and screams in agony

I do not smile for my heart, who would rather drown herself than remain beating

Or for my words, who labored in vain against your undoing

Or for my arms, who trembled as they were ripped away from your thundering chest

I do not smile

because I am here

I smile ever so slightly

because you are not.