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August 4th
It’s 6 pm, August 4th.
I stand dressed
in fabrics of India
Strands of pearls
Collar my long
White
Neck.
I sip lemonade,
Then red hibiscus iced tea
In my friend’s backyard
Among the
Japanese Maples.
Shadows shimmer
On the lawn.
Amy is pregnant.
Venus on the half shell,
Bedecked in emerald satin.
Her freckled
Cheeks glow.
She stands by her
Husband of two years.
It is her wedding day.
Green dress.
4 months pregnant
two year old
at their feet.
We clink champagne glasses
Filled with
Martinelli’s.
It’s 11:25, August 4th.
I’m cozy in bed,
Covers pulled high around
My
Neck.
Ear plugs
Block
The gentle snoring
Next to me.
It’s 11:26, August 4th.
I’m wide awake
Like I’ve had
10 shots of
espresso.
My husband stands
At the window
Peeks out behind the blinds.
“Stay in bed.” He says.
I drop to the floor
And look through the
One inch crack between
The blinds.
A white hooded man
Lays limp on
The asphalt 3 doors up.
Sirens.
Loud, red, white, yellow.
Flashlights, Ambulance.
Voices calling. Neighbors
Shouting.
My husband runs down stairs.
More sirens, more lights, red,
Flashing. Cops, yellow tape.
No crying. No mother,
Sister, girlfriend, baby.
No crying.
I am glued to the crack in the window.
The man is not
Moving. Not moving.
The sound was so loud
I thought boulders had
Hit the house.
Not moving.
Dead? Is he dead?
Kitari.
23 years old. His brother.
3 shots to the head.
Critically wounded.
Dead.
No more life.
Sleep is a distant friend.
Sirens fade. Bodies
Shuttled away.
Blood stains removed
Wiped up.
Tidied up. This is the hood.
If I didn’t know it before,
I know it now.
My white middle aged body
Wants to run. Get OUT of
This place.
Crossfire is a reality.
“Caught in the crossfire”
is a tag line. I don’t want to
be caught in the crossfire.
Diane
Sherman / August 2007 |