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Amontillado, Anyone?

She said, “I’m leaving” and simply walked out.
Wasn’t that my line? I felt my eyes dissolve
inward to the horror of total hopelessness, like the

face of Fortunato watching that last brick
squirm into place, the gritty ooze of the mortar
giving way to total darkness. All I could do

was jingle having been dressed for the occasion,
once again the fool. For the love of God turn
around! Didn’t happen, and I smothered to death.

The next morning I rose from the dead with the
Sunday paper and read about a thoroughbred’s
retirement: He’ll stand at stud servicing 111

mares a season. The phone rang with an I’m-sorry-
about-last-night jingle. Funny how sweet the
bells sound when you are not wearing them.

Greg Braquet

Bio: Greg Braquet exists in New Orleans, but like most poets lives in a world of his own schmoosing. His poetry has appeared in such publications as The New Laurel Review, THEMA, The Tap Root Review, Lucid Stone, Desire Street, Poetry Life & Times, The Breath Magazine, Red River Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Pierian Springs, Tryst, Side Reality, The Adagio Verse Quarterly, The Little Green Tricycle, The Junket, Tin Lustre, L'Intrigue, Branches Quarterly, Stylus Poetry Journal, Subtle Tea, The Exquisite Corpse, Slow Trains, and The Melic Review. He was a recipient of the Delirium Journal’s 2003 Choice Award, and placed third in the 2005 Eugene Walter Writers Festival. He is the Featured Poet in the current issue of The Hiss Quarterly. deb42@cox.net

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