In Bombay, millions
of people breathe. An old man
inhales the remains
of a blemished sky while a pregnant
girl mutters goodbye. But in my small
Alabama town, at midnight, nothing moves
except my fingers across the keyboard. Last month,
a woman—whose name I forgot—was shot
six times in the abdomen.
Her son might have done it.
Come Sunday, I'll pray
just like the preacher
tells me to. For now, leaves crackle
under my feet
as a train rushes through the night,
toward a damp city. Maybe her name is
on a wall somewhere,
sprayed in hollow letters.