Will

Will

Karen Pape

for Nicole

Polaroid bruises
haunt the night-dark
box where you left
your will,
knowing your end.

Traces of a fairy-tale,
bright and beautiful,
turned grim--
stalked by your
daemon-knight,
whose beauty snared you,
owned you--
a gilded trophy
on the auction-
block of his smile,
his velvet skin, his will
to bend you, young,
to his mold.

It's almost beside
the point--the end--
because you knew,
you prophesied.
Still
in the hopeless
purity of your cries
to those who
turned their backs,
members of that
sacred clique,
menwhoknow
anddonottell--

someone, please,
listen to me--

In a small, black box,
hollow and still,
Polaroid bruises
ratify
your will--