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.