A Little Gift
In the cold silence
Blood drips warm and thick,
Painting the image on glass.
Five fingers, smeared and slipping--
A delicate work it is to leave the whorls
Perfect and whole.
Five prints to trace the agony,
Five slits of the blade along the blue veins.
No terror lurks in the piece,
She knew what was coming and welcomed it.
She was the artist, after all.
They were her prints, her blood,
Framed and caulked on the window pane.
It was a little treasure she was leaving behind,
A gift for her lovers, numerous and few,
Those that denied her, those that used her,
And the ones she swallowed, too.
Five fingers sunk on glass, one for each thought,
For every idea of death she entertained.
Examining her work, she sank to the floor
Knowing the revenge was hers, cherishing
The perfection of the image she was leaving behind.
Dena L. Moore
November 11, 2001
The front page poem changes every 2-3 weeks.
All work on this website are original poems by Dena L. Moore and are copyrighted. If you would like to post any of my work on your site or in print, please contact me or my publisher for permission. The poetry on this site is only a very small sampling of my work.
This page was last updated on July 24, 2004
Copyright February 2001
Dena's Poetry: Poetry of Love, Loss, and the Occult is Written, Designed, and Maintained by
Dena L. Moore
