Wednesday, November 21, 2007
November 21, 2003
They fist the door with their 2am burden
of ill news, two men and a woman —
black, white, clergy, police. Clipboards. Bible.
I know their mission before they speak,
their faces dreading the apologies
for which they bear no blame.
they hunker beside me on the couch,
knowing before me, before my children,
that my husband departed
the scene zipped dead into a sack,
spinal cord transected, right lung punctured.
I will not recall their names,
or whether, roused by duty,
they left a sleeping household
much like mine; the only difference
being that moment’s hesitation
in the turn of the wheel, foot on the brake.