Beside my steps, a squirrel is dying. A slow death, I fear will last for days. The flies hover and I keep watch from the chair on my porch. I decide that I cannot spare him dignity and descend the steps with my keys jangling. He hobbles down the split stone and I follow him, a soft tambourine march to the end.
I go inside then and try to shake the guilt of not wanting to see. Of not wanting to remember the other deaths I have bore witness to. An hour passes. I go again to the porch and look over the rail. The squirrel is back. The flies hover. I cannot escape it this time.
Is 4 the same 4 for everybody?
Are all sevens equal?
When the convict ponders the light
is it the same light that shines on you?
For the diseased, what color
do you think April is?
Which occidental monarchy
will fly flags of poppies?
The most delicate spring storm is brewing outside my door. The kind that ruffles my skirt above my waist and blows the trees to and fro, the kind that smells of fresh cut grass and dampness. If you are in or around Pittsburgh, step outside your door right now & take it all in.