untitled...

I found this the other day scribbled on paper in my copy of Atwood's The Robber Bride. I had entirely forgotten writing it.

Smolder and shrivel
like the cigar stubs
in your father's ashtray
on the desk in his study.
Cuban cigars,
Porcelain ashtray,
Heavy Oak Desk,
Oriental Rug,
Stained with the blood of
his brain.

Discovered by your
spouse
wife
life
partner
in crime.

The scene was cleaned
and so pristine,
only his body remained on the floor,
No remnants of his brain matter
left splattered on the back of that closed door,
that he lay behind, meditating on the purpose
of death.

You come home, and ask
"Where is Father?"
"Balancing his Chakras" she replies,
"Tonight, he has opened his third eye."