The Finest Cup of Coffee She Would Ever Drink

Her hand was not shaking.

 

She set the gun down on the counter

As she entered the kitchen.

Poured herself a cup of coffee.

 

Black as pitch and her life before…

 

Ignored the blue bruise

That haloed her right eye

Reflected in the metallic skin of the toaster.

 

The police would be there soon.

She could hear the sirens’ distant wail

Sounding like razors slicing open the belly of the heavens.

 

Perhaps God would tumble down upon her house.

She could ask him about faith and his absent attendance

In her private Hell

 

Not that it mattered now.

 

So, she sipped slowly

Savored the bitterness.

No matter the cage the authorities would put her in

 

Freedom never tasted so good.

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