nine months pregnant and found in
the dirt, in the weeds, found murdered
like you knew she would be, and
the killer is her boyfriend, like you
knew it would be, and we are never
good enough at pretending, none of us,
and the sunlight at six thirty in the
morning is soft and unfocused but
already filled with the threat
of violence
already heavy with the promise
of crucifixion, and i am kissing my
sons goodbye at their mother's front door,
am telling them that i'll see them
tomorrow afternoon, and in the back of
my mind there is always a list of people
i hate, of people i would like to see
dead, and by three in the afternoon the
storm is almost here
by four, it's already gone
the heat come back like a lover who
never gets tired of beating you
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