"opera" ."your playing opera again"
she kicks off her heels
tosses the car keys on the antique
coffee table
falls backward on the white leather
couch....
"yes Ms Daae....."
I look up from Conrads book
over the glasses
the reading lamp
gleams off her
Danish genes
..
"will I always just be your
Christine?" soft
petulant...wanting..
"no...not just....the liberty
of imparting persona's
is mere intellectual sleight
of hand.." I slip a faded
postcard from Japan from
Halina. postmarked 1988

"there is some Pinot Noire
and Panella in the refridgerator
if your famished....I've missed
you...I saw your dopplerganger
again.."

"oh..the other Christine...she doesn't
sing arias we were adopted at the
orphanage...her parents grew
strawberries....the heart medicine
good with fresh creme!"

"I never know what mask your story
is telling...do tell girl...fetch us some
glasses and wine.."

"wine mister..is for choirboys and coach
drivers...I've brought the "truth medicine",!"

my heart jumps in its rustic cage as sharp
as the potholes on cobblestones the Uber
insists on striking....got nerves like a bomber
pilot...flys straight through the hell of
rush hour....The Audis suspension taking
a beating

I slap the arm of the matching chair
she digs in her designer clutch bag
for the trimmings and fixer
she knows my greatest fear and
weakness
sits across my legs
I can smell the dampness in her
hair...the warm tinge of cigarettes
the repugnant patchoulli of
the dealer...
but she's buying
and her youthful non shaking
hands are the last ones I trust
when I lean and give her
my neck

her full lips press against
the sting
and I'm off
Kiss of the Vampyre
to the swelling strings
from the stereo
she cuts it with a
switchblade
military flatblack
on the Conrad
her long red hair
with the thin braid
trickling
running across
the white like
snow
shes my fairytale
I'm the dying king
cursed by a ruined
queen
dampness is
shrivelling up the
pages

"now my dear..
this shall be
the fairest chapter
of the sequel of
tragedies..."

she nods tracing
my rings on the
sterling braided
chain
my hand rests
on the black ink
of one exposed
shoulder blade
of a wing

.....