Jacqueline

Her gun?
A deadly piece of metal and sweat
and bullets, for sure,
after hours at the exhibition
when the lights went dark
in the south of France.

Married Years?
It was twenty, the chroniclers say,
she played the empress with an
exaggerated neck on his canvas,
and in his bed with her feline face,
there was a painting to be made.

The Musee Picasso in Paris
never heard the sound.

One by hanging, earlier, and now
the smell of gunpowder in another lonely room.