Poetry, Vol. 2.3, Sept. 2008
I stood in my lavender nightdress in the wet grass. The man cried before they roped his neck and lifted him off the ground, letting him back down. But still he did not sing out that he killed the girl, so up and down again he went. Proof, they found her stockings on him—pale lilac in moonlight. They cut off the man’s toes joint by joint. They started a fire under him with a can of gas. I heard you laugh. Not the you who ate grape pears with me in the orchard. I covered my eyes. A baby shrieked. They hung him higher, quivering with life. You could hear them singing down the street, fragrance to their singing.