Behind my Back

I feel their eyes

hear the unintelligible

murmured whispers,

doesn’t matter—

I know which words

trip across malicious lips,

feel the breath of

jealousy?

hatred?

on the back of my neck,

hair fully alert,

erect,

aware of the undoing:

schemes and plans.

Assassin training

isn’t what it used to be,

feeble attempts

to smear a life of sacrifice, invert

greatest common factor

and least common dominator

in a flurry of purebred pooches

barking orders, nipping

at my heels while I

watch the road

through the windshield

of the car in front of me in the

slow lane, vicious gossip

tailgating me up another bumper

while wheels spin and

tongues wag, demanding,

“Did you hear

about the night

she made her absence

a presence, ruining

the triumphant performance?”

It’s true, I filled the room

from a distance, watched

the video on instagram

a week later, remembering

how decadently comfortable

I was that night, in my

recliner while a flat face

tried to grimace the tears

away, snapping to the door

every time it opened from the street,

anticipating my arrival,

and what a time the bitch

brigade had, inventing

things to say

if I dared

to show my face.