12
My memory is a closet without dimension
or doors: a mystery, often blank, sometimes dark.
A child, a stranger, waves to me
and laughs from across the room
as night begins to fall.
What does she know? What does she see?
Her mother holds her hand. They walk away
out of view but the image remains.
The vapors and debris of a lost dream
haunt me now: the barrel of a rifle,
the flash of a ballistic blast,
a pink cloud
of blood and brain,
the presidential limousine racing towards the underpass,
Dallas, Oswald and the death of umpires.
The crime that haunts the nation.
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