Doug Roy, Fish Whiskers, Cut Paper
My Nephew
wanted money sent to him in prison
years ago—today he stands wearing a suit
and tie at mother’s funeral, will hardly look
at me—I never sent the money, that’s only
one of the things in Purgatory I’ll answer for,
another is too deep,
impossible to dredge up, it comes in train whistles
impossibly shrill, a memory too deep,
like drumming heard through a wall,
something I could have prevented,
too remote to confess.
The dog in agony on a road
surrounded by high desert shadows.
He’d been shot, my face drained of blood,
I could have stopped it—
But that’s another story
of intentions gone wrong, human error,
a man in town who had not prayed
in years, who had been denied entry
into heaven, who thought he was helping
the dog, but he could have stopped it
at the last minute. That’s another story.
Why they were there at all—the crossroads,
that darkening night, away from God
and the city.
_____________
Zeke Sanchez