Wayne Russell poetry

The Email

There it was in my email account, in 
the junk mail collecting cyber dust for
days on end.

The subject read only “Dear Beloved.”
Her name was exotic, like something from 
the islands of a far-flung nation that I never
knew existed, until now. 

She used the name of God, and quoted 
2 Corinthians 4:6-18 from the Bible.

She told me that her husband, when still
alive, had deposited $15.5 million into their
bank account.

She told me that he had “met an unfortunate
end while doing humanitarian work in South 
Africa; he was murdered,” but did
not go into any further details.

Her husband, according to her, “was many 
things, a spreader of the gospel, a humanitarian,
and a wealthy timber exporter.”

She went on to say that she too was dying
and that she was “now in the final stages of
lung cancer.”

She said that her final wish was to “leave the
money in good hands,” and that is also what her
“husband would have wanted, God rest his soul.”

“As I have no living heirs, I have both selected
and trusted you with my fortune.”

“If you are willing to agree to the terms of this 
arrangement, please waste no time in sending me 
a prompt reply to this email.” 
All I need are your account details, and I will make
all your dreams come true, my dear beloved.”

The mysterious email was signed with an exotic
and beautiful name, and sealed with a kiss laced
with hemlock.