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Hello, my love –
looking at your photo
on your belly, rifle drawn
in jungle fatigues
is terrifying, hon…
Far cry from your get-up
in Mid-Summer Night’s Dream –
Thought I’d scrrreeeam when you lunged at me –
your tights drawn and sword up!
Twelfth Night was even better –
in those damn leotards!
Amazing fence-faking back-breaking gyrations –
awkward at first like love-making,
and like love-making –
You Errol Flynned me
with your fencing skills –
epee poised and ready to prick
some dastardly bastard! but nooooo!
had to lunge! twist! thrust! and plunge!
skewering my couch pillow as I grimaced –
not for my heirloom –
it was fresh-kill face made me shudder.
Your face has that same look
as I study your eyes in this photo –
no sign of twisted tights or eat-shit grin,
no hint of prance or ballroom dance, dear,
this is a last-time face, darling..
not the love-soaked Nureyev eyes
…………..I knew before your first kill.