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Published in The Powhatan Review
Wonder if the man who will send you death stands watching a black bird arc high over a freshly tilled field. Maybe later he will spoon soup into his mouth, lips drawn over teeth to find the ovum of metal or maybe he will go out, press a button, push a door, erase the page to its clean white tilt, lift the bundle from your arms. Who is he? What is his name? What connects you to a man who turns a hallway across this curving world? What does he remember as the chambers of his chest swallow red ribbons of now, return to him the brink of mapled afternoons? Where was he going when the silt flared in the pool of your life, careful border of your hopes knocked loose while miles away he crushed a cigarette, its orange heart a hole that opened up forever. Back
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