Ten years in these eucalyptus groves where iodine winds shuffle menthol gum leaves I’ve pressed aromatic poultices against the scar of your memory. There’s nothing. Nothing behind your blue eyes, lord of lies, evil magnet, lodestone of my worst nature, hypnotic glazed gaze of a bird of prey. Twisted mirror that reflects what you think I desire. This conversation is you merely playing with your food. You are as incapable of compassion as a prairie hawk eating a mouse.
First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black.