Page 15 - A Qualified Acceptance of Sorrow

Cruella DeVil

You sweep into the room
draped in a grandeur
fashioned of smokin’ illusion.

You scatter venomous barbs
the way another flicks ashes
from a cigarette holder.

This is what you want.
Your gesture emphasizes your demands.

Never mind the needs or desires of others.

Your charming smile
fails to launch –
why would you waste it on me?

Because I contradict you,
you pummel my head
with your small fists.

After Sylvia Plath