Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Some days I walk the beach

beached wood, porous,
like her hip,
that broke in the night
and left her on the floor
to die of thirst.

a bruised shell,
stiff as the helmet
that protected his head when he fell
but couldn't keep out the tumor
that pushed him off the bike
(just a lemon, and benign,
unlike the ones
that took a daughter's heart,
a mother and two father's brains;
three throats
in a single family)

five hours of surgery done, she reports;
he's fine, but no more cycling for a while.

I'm grateful, but I want to ask
where does it end,
why here,
why now,
and when?

some days
I walk the beach
and all I see
is death

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