-After Victoria Chang’s “Eva Braun at Berchtesgaden”
His body bobs facedown
atop an underlit pool.
The assassin
retreats. The sirens sound
shrill: accents
wail and whir. Her gauzy
gown flows past silent-film
memorabilia, framing coiffed
curls, wrinkled lips stained
rouge.
Then herds of hurried heels
enter and divide, half
upstairs, half to the foyer filling with tendrils
of burnt tobacco. All evening
trench coats interrogate the starlet,
clicking cameras, wafts
of eau de parfum, puffing
powder. Then a coerced descent
down her spiral staircase, faux fans loitering
silently as she saunters
past, back arched, left arm outstretched,
eyes widened for her final close-up.
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