I-40

  1. We told the children

he was fishing.

 

I drove us

to the park, delirious

with morning.

 

The children stomped

& glowed, over

& over

with their pink hands.

 

  1. At the battle of Antietam

there were fluorescent

soldiers.

 

I could have loved

this bacteria – those men,

infected with light.

 

  1. That morning,

the adults drove

to the hospital,

to my sleeping

brother,

 

while at the park

I fed

the children

cheese sandwiches,

& their mouths

shone red

with juice.

 

  1. My brother swelled

and could not speak,

in the bed with his chipped

teeth & the gravel & grass

and brown blood.

 

Posturing – the sign

of his new damage.

 

Was I proud

of the longing

in his room?

 

I lived in my old habits.

Fear made a proud girl of me,

and I began to love

my blind blind

glowing.

 

  1. The children

made a new game

each morning,

& I let them wake me

in my grandmother’s

house, but I was sick

with trembling.

 

The car rolled

off the levee,

five times, over

& over.

 

 

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