You won't ever see me cry again.

Packs of cars, blue striped, green striped,

outside your house, words on them

like Spokane City Police, Sheriff, K-9.

When I pull up, I’m shaking,

shaking and pale in the early morning, a

blue silk robe

over jeans. I see men with radios in their belts, talking,

serious. I see guns.

It is barely light as I step out

of the car, bare feet on cold concrete.

                    You, me.

                    In the basement.

                    You’re telling me about this guy, how he hates your guts.

                    You got promoted, he didn’t.

                    I run my hand over your shoulder. “It’s ok.

                    He’s just jealous.”

                    You say, “No, there’s something off about Bill.

                    I don’t want you to call me at work anymore.

                    I don’t want him to know about you.”

                    Why? I don’t understand, but

                    I say okay, leaning against your shirt.

I run for your front door.

“Hey! Ma’am! Are you involved? We need you

to stay back.”

A sheriff with a military mouth, grey shirt.

Two officers, setting up orange cones, caution tape,

look over.

I know they won’t let me see you,

I don’t get desperate.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I say, my mouth feels numb.

I want them to know.

The sheriff says something about being sorry,

something about protocol, I can’t come any closer. He guides me

back to my car by my shoulder.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I say again and again,

now tears are slipping down my face, into

the blue silk robe.

You don’t see me cry.

                    In the kitchen, making peanut butter ‘n’ jelly.

                    We had been laughing, but now you get quiet, you say,

                    “I’m getting kinda nervous about Bill.”

                    I lift one foot in a pirouette, holding

                    the jam jar.

                    “Tell him off,” I say; I put your sandwich together.

                    You don’t eat.

                    “No, Ellie,” you say, and tell me about

                    the gun rack, notes, Bill’s friends that follow you.

                    While you tell me,

                    I watch your sandwich. Your fear scares me.

                    But you don’t wanna tell the boss, don’t wanna

                    make things worse.

                    I say again, “It’s ok, I love you.” We hug.

                    I wonder, later, if I should tell someone.

                    I fall asleep first.

You won’t ever see me cry again.

By the time the sunrise turns the clouds

red like pain,

a body bag is loaded into a dark car.

I’ve cried so hard, the grass outside my car

is covered in vomit.

The sheriff stops by, opens the door. “We’ll call you. Do you need

someone to drive you home?”

My thin arms are shaking uncontrollably

and I say, “He’s my boyfriend.”

“He was a good-looking kid,” the sheriff says,

and I see that we both understand the tragedy

of a death with no meaning.

Reviews

[Elizabeth]

"By the time the sunrise turns the clouds
red like pain"
Great image.

Wow, this is a powerful narrative. Persephoneia recommended it to me (perhaps you know her?) You tell the story very well. My heart was actually beating faster as I read and was awaiting the outcome. Typically I read narratives such as this one with very mild interest, but you certainly captured my attention here in many ways. A great piece, I mean that :)

[Myk Malice]

i like the story behind this. very moving.

[Blue]

This is cool how it's like a story... Keep it up!!

[Ruth]

This is mind blowing! A powerful poem that is really moving and the structure is excellent! xx

[Dawn Jones]

Definately a good story. I like your format, it's different and compelling. I think I should certainly look into your other works.

[Mark]

You have an uncanny knack for writing about situations that are not from personal experience. Really good.

[A.Lee]

Wow... this is amazing. I love the way you told this story. Your descriptions and dialogue were perfect. Very very well written.

[ettorney]

Well done. Tragic and sad. One critique . The line, "a couple of weeks later" threw me off on the timing of the conversation as a transition. The visual cue of the paragraph spacing helped a bit but going from the day of the murder in the previous paragraph to reading "a couple of weeks later" confused me initially. It kinda of ruined the emotional flow.

Can you connect the previous events together without throwing off the emotional strength of the current events? I mean, without referring specifically to a time frame as you do in every other transition.

Aside from my own ignorance regarding the above, I like it.

[Miss Coral]

Wonderful.. great imagery and flow.. and a wonderful but terrible story.

Great job.

[Bella-Marie]

This was really sad, I felt like I was truly involved in the story.
Keep writing like this, it is an excellent way to do so.

[Art]

Tagedy is everywhere...to feel its touch is to know death...one can feel your emotions from within this piece, it is as realistic as life itself, whether or not it is real there is that sadness and tragedy mixed within thoughts...

nice work...