The silhouette of chairs on the asphalt broke
into a scatter of light.  The sound, a lamentation

of shattered glass, wave breaks against
the bayou’s shore.  Forgive me when I say

I turned away from him as he wandered
barefoot into the grass among the mosquitoes.

His sweat, a body trampled, an unwashed room.
The black sky ignited.  I am ashamed

to admit that I wanted his death to come.
Not because he suffered, because I did.


Amanda Auchter



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