could do that.
As if there were simply
a hex I could cast.
As if I could ever
grant myself permission
to wrap these
tense hands around its
incorporeal throat—
or grab
for some ethereal,
existential pillow
to smother
its monotonous mouth
without guilt—
some divine length
of piano wire
that wouldn't leave welts,
or some metaphysical
potion, purpose-built
to snuff its lights out,
leaving
no residue
of murderous intent
and me, though
newly-listed as sole
inheritor of its estate,
still somehow
bathed in the good
graces of its family members—
in particular, its
attractively built
younger sister.
