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The day you flew in perfect arc 
from your motorcycle was the same day 
I broke the perfect formation of your women 
at the railing, leaving behind 
your grandmother and mother, to run 
and jump the fence.  The stop watch hanging 
from my neck, suspended between gravity 
and momentum, swung its perfect pendulum. 
All our motion was brought to conclusion 
by your broken body at rest 
on the ground.  Your breath never rose 
to the oxygen placed on your face 
and your heart never rallied 
to the arms pressing your chest. 
You wore the perfect clothes: 
the ashy grey of death. 

At the hospital they said your failure to survive 
was complete.  Though I never saw 
the neck you perfectly broke or your body 
cleanly draped by a sheet, I did see 
your dead face bruising up at me 
and for lack of something to touch, 
I touched the stop watch 
which had not died. 
If any nurse or doctor had asked, 
I could have told, exactly, 
to the hundreths of seconds, how long 
it had been since I'd seen you alive. 


Submitted by Jt

Added: 7 Apr 2002 | Last Read: 21 Nov 2008 9:40 AM | Viewed: 2816 times

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