His Prize (Pt.4) Poem by Rebecca Springsteen

He stood above
me. He touch burns
my skin. Professor?
Now I see pictures, everywhere. Photographer?
The eyes are right in front of me, while my nose sniffs
the rotten scent again. She's scouring
on the floor, taking control
of the stick. Hitting the chalice
over, then I see her amber
necklace. Drilling
into her skin. While the dead plovers
look right at her. Then the lights disappear,
while I hear a truck on gravel.