White Boots
She wore
Bone white bright boots
To my mother’s funeral.
Ice cold in a summer heat.
She said it all,
Like- no respect.
And then she spouted
From those clipped thin blood lined lips.
A stream of undiluted vitriol,
Enough to make you flinch.
As her daggers filled the air
With words that cannot be recaptured
And stay as open wounds upon the heart
But make her feel much better
As she walked away.
On spindle heels
With poison well delivered.