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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