On Frenemies

Machiavellian Guest

0505.2010

—for the one who mistook my kindness for weakness

✥

You are no longer welcome

through the gates of my garden—

no more bluebells nodding

at your borrowed grace,

no wild rose trees

shedding red at your arrival.

You may not enter

the hush of my home

to sip from my supper,

to lift your glass

and toast “endurance”

with a mouth full of schemes.

When you leave tonight—

the last time—

your departure will already be

etched in your smile:

fat-lipped from devils

you fed with both hands.

I loved you.

I did.

But only enough

to bow my head

and say goodbye

like a woman

who no longer believes in saints.

I admit—

I rehearsed your leaving.

Chose the night.

Polished the silence.

Laid the linen of restraint

over the coals of rage.

An old neighbor warned me once—

he who swept the ashes

you left in his hearth.

He called you Machiavellian Princess—

said you crowned yourself

in charm and ruin,

praised my generosity

while eying the matchstick,

sang at my threshold

and salted my roots when displeased.

I did not listen.

But tonight,

when you cross my door,

I will not cry.

I will not curse.

I will only watch

as you fold into the dark—

a slender bird

devoured by a velvet sky.

And I will thank

the night

for its appetite.

m.c.f.