poetry writing challenge - day 25

write about an event with the event name in the title

(from a random nightmare about Scott Peterson after watching some t.v. thing about murderers. one reason I don't have a t.v....)

Vendetta Day

First, we are outside under sheer cliffs
slick electric green with moss and I say, "Let's hike!"
but he is taciturn and won't leave the car.
"Why did we come here then?" I asked,
as we drove in silence
and approached Vendetta.

"I hate it here," he says. "Here we go, Here we go."
We pull into the outskirts of Vendetta.
There is a festival going on, nothing that has to do with the word
just a festival of place. He drives slowly and says
to himself so quietly, I can barely hear:
"Don't hurt her. Don't hurt her."
And he looks at me and says "He's here.
He's here." and after that makes no more sense.

I am scared, then terrified, in the plaza,
in the crowds of Vendetta when he shouts out
full of rage and madness and his clothes turn red
and he slices the neck of some random man with his pen
and the man crumples in his arms like a dishtowel.

I know it's just a nightmare because I am so frightened
I simply transport myselft to my mother's house
now, weirdly, in the deep suburbs. I say,"Don't lie to me.
I'm so sick of being lied to. Do you really live here?
How long have you lived here. Will I be okay?"

She is pale, won't look at me, folds dishtowels
and stares out at the tan houses
receding in severe perspective outside of her window
as far as could be seen. I know she doesn't live here
but I can't change it. I can't get her to look at me.

"You know the answer to all of it," she says.
"Just like - wearing his red clothes -
he will find you.
Yes. I live here.
You can see me. Here I am.
Honey.
Yes."