Wednesday, April 18, 2012


Memento Mori

Here is a version of what happened, mine, 
teased from the wiry vacant bird’s 
nest that once cradled a brace of fine blue 
eggs, hatched now, certainty and faith long

since flown, tufts of truth, a few jagged bits 
of thin shell all that remain leaving 
plenty of room for sparrows and wrens, 
busy squatters flitting in and out, 

relining with fragile gauzy fiction, 
sitting on a new brood at once strange 
and familiar; take Cherokee Hill for 
instance, the setting of which I’m certain,

less so about the curious
application here of Red as motif:

sudden code-red wail of sirens
mad dash to Red Bank Baptist Church
dozens of strobing red lights
accordioned red Beetle
touches of red repeated on scattered Bud cans
pools of dark blood spreading out 

a distinction that would have gone 
unnoticed that hot afternoon, my aunt 
flushed from the short furious drive, three 
shirtless barefoot children ferried to their 

first brutal brush with certainty, at least 
one, perhaps, trying to imagine 
the light touch of the white sheet drawn 
gently over his astonished cooling face.

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