She is on the run.
A Bonnie despicably afraid of her Clyde.
The backdrop of the departing sun
and the unease of the cool wind,
tickling her neck,
a constant shadow of regret
haunting her dreams
and becoming a nightmare made flesh.
Lucky number seven,
the seventh day of the seventh month
of the year two-thousand seven–
Ring, ring!
“Room for one, please.”
Lucky Room Seven.
Her personal haven
as she runs from the law.
Her personal prison
as she stares at the double-locked door
with a brass doorknob
and a very tempting
DO NOT DISTURB sign.
The air is stale,
a clinical perfume,
a miasma of hurried movements
and bleach, with an undertone
of fetid passion and–
Ring, ring!
“Ms. Carlisle, your husband is here,
is it not queer?
A lady without a ring,
what kind of trouble will this bring?
Sir, you cannot–”
Bam, bam!
Unease is a bitter and constant friend and
her personal companion
when she is on the road.
it anchors her to this world–
her pinch back to reality
as she lives the criminally-famed lifestyle
without the whores, booze, and money.
An empty suitcase
filled with empty wrappers
and a vial of hemlock,
she stares at the double-locked door,
trigger fingers itchy.
Dammit Claire! Open up!
The double-lock held on tight,
and gave her enough time
to pop the lid off,
and swallow the elixir of passionate death.
Feet wobbling and eyes hazy,
she walks to the bathroom,
Staring at her reflection with a winsome smile.
Pushing her bangs off her forehead
and admiring her aquamarine eyes,
fatigue stark against her pasty skin.
Open up, Ms. Carlisle!
She laughs a broken laugh
and succumbs to the poisons’
seductive song.
…
The fateful double-lock
finally gives in as the police barge in
guns out and metal cuffs clanking.
“Ms. Carlisle?”
“Where is she?”
A murder mystery they wonder,
as they see blood on the floor,
a perfectly unblemished trail
of dried drops of blood
that leads straight to the bathroom,
the artificial lights,
ugly and cheap.
“Oh, my God–!”
“Sir, please step back–”
“She is my wife–!”
They find lovely Mrs. Carlisle
dead on the floor,
economical clothes clean and pristine,
nose dripping blood,
and a chilling smile
that even the hardest of men,
take a step back,
as a witnesses
a stunning death.
“…”
“We need an ambulance
…
At Lucky’s motel, Room Seven…”
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 