Monday, October 24, 2022

S.B. Watson


I knew him from Montecristo.
He was a sallow little man, with bitter eyes,
That always had a backup plan,
That hid his candied lies.
He owned a 45-foot yacht,
(Or something like, that sailed)
And a little villa on the cliffs,
Beneath an endless open stretch
Of endless open skies,
And cars, and wines, and finer things—
A painting of Aldebaran,
The Following Star—which paled
Beside his lonely trophy wife
With perfect trophy eyes.

I met him in the Great Northwest.
He had a house, another nest
To hide more golden eggs.
And there his wife was with him too,
The bruises on her white arms bare,
And on her lily legs.
Their guests made sure they didn’t stare,

But everybody knew.
She poured him yet another glass
Of wine from one of their old kegs,
And as he drank his brimming cup
She calmly sipped the dregs.

I saw him last beneath the bridge,
The night was dark. His skin was cold
Beneath the misty headlamps overhead
I struggled by myself to hold
His body.
He was dead.
I rolled him underneath the waves, and
Watched the cement shoes he wore
Make him sink like lead.

She saw me last there at the trial.
I only noticed towards the end, but after
“Guilty” I stood up
And turned, to look her full in face
—she smiled—
And the eyes that paled the Following Star
Seemed then to grant me grace.

S.B.'s YouTube video reading of "Killer":

Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.

S.B. confesses: "I am an occasional amateur astronomer, and while I don’t get as much time to observe as I would like, the stars are often in my thoughts. Centering a femme fatale’s concept of self in a sinister portrait just occurred to me one day, while my mind wandered."

S.B. WATSON is a writer from Keizer, Oregon. When he’s not spending time with his family, practicing historic English quarterstaff, or playing Bluegrass guitar, he can be found in his library, constructing mystery novels and writing peculiar pieces of short fiction.

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