Dead Eyes Don’t Sparkle

subway_200x200

I learned of her death through a FaceBook post.
The newspaper headline amid announcements about
IsIs and Grumpy Cat. (What freedom accessible information
Has given us,
Also produced the apathy involved with convenience)

Her portrait was set against a blue background,
Calm as a warm vein. Blonde hair styled like a model
Advertised in a Sears’ catalog.

I was drinking diet Mt. Dew,
Upset that the carbonation absolved
Into tiny bubbles,
Gliding down my larynx like crawling roaches.

When I read he slit her throat with a box-cutter.

I gulped,
And read a neighbor was quoted as saying:
“She was a good mother,
Her children were the center of her world.”

We met while employed at Subway.
With fingers immersed in lettuce, onions, tomatoes,
Subway’s “fresh choices”
She would go on and on in a constant loop of praise
About her children. This behavior annoyed me, but
It seems inappropriate to describe it as such, now.

But people won’t talk about her that way.

She never climbed mountains,
Or learned to fly.
Never made a sex tape public,
Or kissed the pope’s toes.

She was a mother.

Who will forever be known
As the woman whose throat was cut by a box-cutter.

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