John Biscello

In a sense,

you could call it

a stay of execution,

but that would be waxing operatic

just to make the whole thing

worth remembering.

Still, he had

groveled before your feet,

while clutching at your shadow’s hem,

begging for a temporary pardon

or reprieve,

those were his exact words,

as your silence, like sullen ash,

left him singed

in the face of metaphor.

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)