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