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 :)

[Patrica Alvarez]

I like the quick pace of this

[Dressed in Poetry]

Wow. This is stunning. I had to re-read it to absorb it all (and that is in no way a bad thing).

[Ellen Hammond]

I hope this is fiction, not a reality for you. The way it is written, going from the murder scene to reflecting back on the times the deceased had mentioned his fear etc. makes this seem so real.

One thing that threw me was the line, "A couple weeks later." as it immediately follows the crime scene events, although at second reading, the indentation helped to clarify it a bit. I am wondering if it might read more clearly if you changed the time line to something like, "It was only yesterday" or something like that.

Other than that, this is write that kept my attention from beginning to end. Well done!

[GunMetal]

... I am awestruck by the tragedy of this. I could imagine in acute detail the scenes as they progress on a broken time-line. This was such a fantastic work of art. Thank you for sharing this.

[Aekmy]

You're amazing. Imagery, metaphors, rhymes. It doesn't get any better than this. I love reading your work.

I could feel her pain as I read this. I could see the house with the caution tape and the sheriff's standing around, talking, 'serious', you said. You did an amazing job writing this and painting a picture for us.

Good job(:

[SamanthaLynn]

this is amazing! there is so much imagery in this poem i felt like i was the girl. i actually started to tear up a little bit because of how good this is! good job :) i really enjoyed reading this.

[Harley Ann]

that's terrible!!!
the writing is way too good. it makes the story even more painful...
the format is clever. the narrator (which i hope isn't really you, since this would be such a tragic thing to live through...), sounds cute. her boyfriend really seems to care...
it's a beautiful write!

[Holly O'Brien]

Well, I must say, the fast pace in description of events really worked for me lol...I enjoyed it from beginning to end...nice

[larryb]

Good writing , i sure hope this is fiction but a great job putting it down on paper :)