Beyond Badges and Barbed Wire
 
Baklava
 
River Run
 
Perfect Pen
 
Red Ride
 
Raven Heart
 
That Wild Thing
 
Tsunami
 
Urban Spring
 
Yellow Canyons
 
Edge of the World
 
Silver Weaver
 
Grace
 

 
August 4th 

Six o’clock pm,
I stand dressed 
in saffron and mango
silks, pearls
collar long
white neck.

We sip lemonade
and red hibiscus tea
under Japanese maples.
Evening shadows shimmer.

Venus on the half shell,
belly round with second child.
Two year old toddler pulls
at emerald satin dress,
for mommy’s love.

Side by side, they exchange vows.
Champagne glasses filled
with Martinelli’s clink and clank.

***

Eleven twenty five pm,
covers pulled high
around neck, ear plugs
block gentle snoring
next to me.

*** 

Eleven twenty six pm,
saucer eyed,
ten shots of espresso
pumped through veins.
He looks out from behind the blinds.
Stay in bed.

White hooded limp body
sprawls on asphalt three doors down.
Sirens.
Loud, red, white, yellow.
Flashlights, ambulance.
Voices call, 
neighbors shout.

More sirens, more lights, red,
flashing. Cops, yellow tape.
No crying. No mother,
sister, girlfriend, baby. 
No crying.

I am glued to the crack between the blinds.
The man on the pavement is not
moving.  Boulders hit the house.

Kitari. Is he dead?

Twenty three years old. His brother. 
three shots to the head. 
Critically wounded.

Sirens fade. Bodies
are shuttled away.
Blood stains wiped up 
and scrubbed away.

Cross fire is a reality. 
Caught in the crossfire,
a tag line. 

I don’t want to
be caught in the crossfire.

 Diane Sherman  /  August 2007