M is with Michael, for Emmanuel
All I know is we had crossed over
the Point Street Bridge and were passing
through the south side of our medium
New English city.
It was a blinding white weekday—
summer—but not yet
the 4th of July.
I was driving.
You were 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 their standard descriptions.
We felt the thundering gunfire
and then like slow-motion granular
video, the car door was open
and one man was down on the ground
We didn't know which way to turn,
two overgrown school children
with no sense of direction.
Later, you told me that you wanted
to jump out of the car and yell, "Stop!"
but you were afraid.
I almost put the car in reverse but
knew we could never go back
the way we came. In the end
we just passed through
the intersection and went home.
We fled the scene but can't get away
from ourselves. It was still Tuesday
afternoon, but the light in the kitchen
looked dimmer because now we knew
what we always suspected was true:
where there is no witness, there is no victim.
And history has always been happening.
Copyright 2016 | Pet Murmur