This poem won 3rd place in the 1999 Robert Penn
Warren Prize contest conducted by The Cumberland
Review of Poetry.

The Stalker's Villanelle

She doesn't realize that she is dead.

Remembering the ring, the vows we swore,

I follow her like something left unsaid.

She drives the car I gave her when we wed.

She grips a steering wheel I've gripped before.

She doesn't realize that she is dead.

She's stepping from the car—her legs, her head!

Watching her stroll into the grocery store,

I follow her like something left unsaid.

She flicks her hair, just as she would in bed

When she'd make love as if it were a chore.

She doesn't realize that she is dead.

These strangers can't discern the life she's led.

They see a charming smile; I see a whore

And follow her like something left unsaid.

She surely feels her whole life lies ahead

As she steps briskly through the exit door.

She doesn't realize that she is dead.

I follow her like something left unsaid.

Jeff Holt

© 1999; originally printed in The Cumberland Poetry
Review.  Reprinted by permission of the author.