I wished for him a dead child by the poor

Piggly Wiggly which has by now, of course,

become a Giant Eagle.  I hoped and the thing


occurred! A blast in the rail yard, his family

poised by a Subaru in the parking lot, his face

later edited from the evening news, camera


filming just the dusty toddler in his arms,

limp and bruised against a dirty white shirt.  I hid in

my room afterwards for those powdered little


legs, flop footed, the end of my sleeping. At

the funeral, I wondered no one accused,

instead stared at the box heaped with daisies.


No lilies, his wife had told the papers. Not for

us.  Only he and I know why.  Or do we?

Most likely he never learned my name,


doesn’t care that for years after the rope, the blade, the

blood in the sink, I crept from

window to window, saw a doctor once a week.


I still do. How many more like me spread

throughout the city? A few?  Dozens?  Until

the morning of that fertilized desire,


concurrent thought, the explosion we begot:

chaos, sirens, smoke, our spirits immediately

freed: finally, he wails, in the end, grieves.







Photo by Walkin on Sunshine on Flickr