Jackie

by Christopher T. George
Desert Moon Review
Honorable Mention, December 2016
Judged by Richard Krawiec


“I want them to see what they have done to Jack.”
So she wore her blood-stained pink
Chanel suit all the rest of that day.

She cradled his bloodied head in the helter-skelter ride
to Parkland: Jack’s glorious brow, storied crown

of a king. She knows Camelot is no more,
watches LBJ, uncouth Texan, seize power.

Jack’s corpse is covered by a white sheet,
a naked foot exposed—she feels blood drain

from her face, aware she is being watched;
everyone is silent, everything is different.

She takes his foot in her hand, kisses it gently, then
lifts the sheet to expose his face and shoulders,

recalls as a child no older than John John falling on the path
and how the nurse always kissed her better;

she returns to kiss Jack’s foot once more,
and through the sheet, his leg, waist, chest,

finally his lips. Now he is perfect again.



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