Image by Bikurgurl
I never see naked mannequins
That I don’t think of her…because
The young student had reported
There was a mannequin lying on
Band room stage…only it wasn’t
A mannequin, it was a body.
Nude, her clothes in a pile beside
Her, my friend lay dead, murdered
By a classmate…her blood a lake
Around her, crimson as Christ’s
In Whom she’d put her faith.
How many stab wounds does it
Take to make a lake of innocence?
And her throat was slit…that, we
Knew from mortician’s inept effort
To tape it closed…all her friends
Aghast, grieved and traumatized.
Not a mannequin…
©Ennle Madresan, 2019 ~ All rights reserved.