With sacred rites we burn her. The funeral pyre sings and crackles in the riverside air.
But first he had to take out the .45 bullets, the cold, sharp, dead things. Not his weapon of choice on the flowers he picked up, the boys who fell for the hush, the softness of his voice, never recognized him for who he was until too late. Youth was stupid, that way. No grown man would have entered his car.
I wonder sometimes if I’m as dirty on the inside as I feel on the outside.
But the X-ray shows I’m merely broken.
They called to her and spoke to her of withered roots, of a trunk gone mad with pain, of homeless leaves looking for little girls to rescue them. She did not know they spoke of themselves.
I don’t know about you, but when I look at me, I like what I see.