I don't remember where we were

going but we had crossed

over the Point St. Bridge

and were driving through

the South Side of

a medium, liberal

New English city.

It was a blinding

white weekday—

summer—but not yet

the 4th of July.

I was driving.

He was riding shotgun.

We were arguing over nothing—

a song on the radio—and had come

to a regular intersection when

a gunshot broke open the daylight.

The ancient alarm, winnowing

red epileptic blue lights. 

The pointed movements

of a uniformed man with a gun

pointed at a man in a car.

This is America. The car was

a common make and model. 

The men fit the standard descriptions.

I felt the thunder of gunfire 

and then like slow-motion granular 

video, the car door was open &

You were down on the ground.

I didn’t know which way to turn.

Part of me wanted to jump

out of the car and yell, "Stop!"

but I was afraid. 

I almost put the car in reverse but

knew we could never go back

the way we came. In the end,

I just drove through

the intersection and went home.

We fled the scene but could not get away 

from ourselves. It was still Tuesday

afternoon, but even the light in the kitchen

looked dimmer because now we knew

what we always suspected was true—

History has always been happening.

I didn’t know what to do

except go to work

in the morning, where I read

your name in the news.

I’ve heard this story

too many times, and

I still don’t know you—

Who are you 

Emmanuel? What do you do—

not for a living—but when you are

at home with yourself? Do you

bake bread, count stars, sing

to your children? Where

do you live with your family? 

When is your birthday? Why

are you crying? How

is your mother? Where

does it hurt? When

will it end? When

will it end/how

to begin?

Copyright 2016 | Revised 2020 | Pet Murmur