Deb Westbury

It is said there was a moment / in the dock, / when her back was up against it, / she pointed the finger at him / to save her own, thieving skin.

Peter, of the stone, / in the crucible of dread / reduced to sulphur; / acid, ashes, stench.

Behind the blue-green agate of her eyes / is the knowledge she protects / even as she dissembles.