waking up in the hospital
(I only pretend to speak from this
perspective), I
see a vision of a man (or a woman;
it is not clear to me if it matters).
he is not much
taller than three inches past five
feet,
and he bears
the entire weight of the
world’s hatred
on his shoulder,
his only good shoulder.
he is begging for
help, help me he says
help me please help me,
but they make him help himself.
so he did, putting
me in a
hospital bed.
and I, too, hate this man-
his murderous fury has
ended the precious life of
a handful of souls,
a basket of souls,
a world full of
souls.
but as I see him in my
vision, I cannot help
but wonder if it is all
my fault, your fault,
Adam, poor Adam’s
fault.
and suddenly I remember
where I have seen this man
before: it was in
the marketplace, september
nineteen ninety
seven. he was there with
his daughter and she
tripped and scraped her knee.
later her mother blamed
this poor man for the scraped
knee, furious with
accusations, yelling such
profanity that even you would
shudder.
so she left with the daughter
(sometimes), but more importantly
she took his favorite
book, the name of which has
long since been forgotten,
but I would not be
at all surprised to see if it was
utopian.
thus the weight of
the hatred ought
not to be on this man,
but on me,
on my very wings
which I,
so privileged and loved,
was given from an early
day,
so that I could fly,
so that he could
die.