Two weeks after the barn fire,
they slept dimly—
my parents in their separate
rooms—the pond
in back clearly visible with the barn
gone. A car on the road slowed
to a near halt. The shots filled only
my father’s room. When my cousin
went to jail, he refused to give
a reason. He escaped, changed his name,
does not know who I am anymore. He is not
who I think of when a bullet splinters
our living room window today. He is not who
I will think of for another week or two
after. Or that pond full of catfish—
burying themselves in the mud bottom.
Gulf Stream Magazine 