Murder of a woman who wore lemon colored gloves 

This time there is no eclectic mansion, no spoonfed and bitter children,

no peculiar great-aunt, no uptight and fuming butler, 

no reclusive family friend, no blood-splattered windows- red 

and wailing.

Here, here, there is merely an empty cul-de-sac 

and the mother and children pile into it, expanding

its belly. Like stray dogs in a thunderstorm, they

long for blood and tissue and flesh. 

Instead, only an small golden-brick house

with the windows left open. The cars passing on a nearby

road. The unfed dog barking at children who no longer exist. 

A corpse dead- given to boxes they call 

coffins. And 

there lies the woman who wore lemon colored gloves. 

Amidst the unsolvable clues- past notes addressed to bygone

family, shredded then reassembled, past dreams of forgotten white 

She is still there. She who loved dreams and witches and charcoal drawings and fireworks and carvings done in wood and ivory. Who

carried around partially filled notebooks for curious spirits. Perhaps that curiosity still infuses the woman with hands who were once clothed by lemon colored gloves, as curious sprouts pry and prod, shooting

up from empty eye sockets.