A poem by Patricia A.

a tragedy of four was
trimmed to three
to fit the clichéd geometric mold
of lust, betrayal, and love,
or,
something that pretends to be love,
that takes a form the prey will trust,
or needs;
that has an insatiable hunger; that devours
and discards,
and left you, the extra line, alone,

detached.

but then, he too became a solitary line
after a lonely madness erased the other two,
one after the other—
or, was it the other after the one?
the one became loved, the other despised,
but not by you.
you wouldn’t recriminate a wild animal
for surviving, though it did so
on your flesh.
you wouldn’t recriminate the siren
for doing what sirens do,
for thrusting you into this epic
without consent;
this epic that started out at sea,
on a ship, as epics often do,
except,
the siren was already up on board;
you were next in line for her,
while she was to be the one for you,
but then,
you shipwrecked your moment on that great island
where jack the ripper once roamed, and now,
through him,
he roamed again— in their hearts,
in their minds, murdering;
first the one and then the other,
leaving you
at the bottom of the page, in smaller font,
alongside definitions and background notes
that afforded you the privacy
to build your life again,
to survive,
to be the last one standing,
left to hold the line
between reality and mythology,
that anthology of love and death,
and enduring ghosts too vain to stay
outside the public eye.
so when will your biography be out?
you pain acknowledged,
your love and passion praised,
the wholeness and the fullness of your life told?
When?