Meaningless music explodes in the tour bus, vibrating the aisle, where her movements are stiff and wild. Her face is the moon’s surface. She wants to show her colleagues that she is talented and convivial. But the reflection of a muddy inscape is always murky. The scar on her thigh is an insignia of her promiscuous past. Now that her passion has been parched, she gives arid moral advice. She catches lovers and cracks their romance. Her frustration is the epicenter. Will love ooze out of her sadistic strata? She often masquerades as lovable. Malevolence carburizes her heart. “Poetry is poisonous,” she announces in the presence of her enemy, a poet. She compels her pupils to spend most of their time on studies. Their butterflies die in her clutch. Music continues: Makkavu bobs her head like an elephant. She is not a rare woman. Even her violent dance gets applause in our lunatic world. Previously published in The Literary Hatchet (Pear Tree Press, U S)