Author of atypical love stories and more, C. St. Sinclair loves love, puns, trickster gods and cats, among other things. Including a nice plate of fish.

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                   C ST. SINCLAIR

Two buzzing dragonflies circled the cooling
                pool of blood.
Damn. She'd struck again.
           I lit a cigarette* and stepped out on
the porch, where the brine breeze of the
    Mediterranean blasted me square in the
                            jaw.
Damned terra cotta shingles, they blinded me
  with their dusty glare and made my head throb
  with images of her red dress, red lips,
      red wine staining our skin as we--

No.
      Never on a case. I promised.

I went back inside where Mr. Ciatelli was *
  cooling faster than the gun by his side.
Fool. You can't kill the devil with a gun.

Her signature was all* over the guy; olive
leaves...her Eau de Morte perfume hangin
in the room like a sea side fog... her kiss,
  those lingering swaths of ruby on the
left cheek, just like the last guy.
            and the guy before him.
            and the gal before him.

I had to turn away to hide my twitch from the
  local polizia. After all these years I still
couldn't hold it back, that undeniable impulse
to have those lips on my cheek* again.

Poem courtesy of The Poem Store, Bellingham WA
Natalie Fedak, Poet

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© 2017-2018 C. St. Sinclair