The Hole
"He knew," I said, "he thought for a while."
Handcuffed to a bench, he lurched forth with a smile.
"She's gone," he grinned, "she's gone right to Hell,
and soon you'll be sharing her same burning cell."
"You lie!" yelled I, "I know she's not there;
look at this evidence upon which I'll swear!"
"It's wrong," he mused, "of that much I'll prove;
just give me two hours and good hiking boots."
"We hike," I said, "at first morning light,
but if it should come to pass that you're right..."
"I am," said he, interrupting my threat,
and so I laid down as the sun slowly set.
"Go on," I said, "We're nearing the place,
where you supposedly slit open my darling wife's face."
"Right there," he jabbed, "is where she'll be found,
twelve feet beneath the moist, swampy ground."
"So dig," I said, "and hope you're not right."
And dig down he did, far into the night.
"I'm done!" he yelled, "Now look at my work!"
I looked in the hole to be met with a smirk.
"Your love," he said, "she's down here with me,
why don't you come closer and my work you will see?"
"Stay there," I wept, "lay down in a heap;
for the dead do not care with whom they do sleep."