by Smoky Trudeau
There’s a picture of you sitting on a horse, reigns held loosely in your hands, and you’re smiling. I look at that picture, and I can almost believe you’re smiling at me, not the other one. The one you rode off with into a Tabasco sunrise as hot as the salsa caliente at the Mexican restaurant that used to be ours, hot as the asphalt that burned my bare feet when I turned away, crying, from our last embrace. Hot as the jealous rage that explodes in my soul when I look at a picture of you, sitting on a horse, smiling at her, not me. Hot as the pistol smoldering in my hand as I stand over your lifeless form. Who’s smiling now?
Smoky Trudeau has published two novels, numerous short stories and poems, and was a 2003 Pushcart Prize nominee. When she isn't writing or editing, she spends her time hiking, gardening, and fighting the urge to speak in haiku.