Walter Conley
AMANDA #1
We came over the tracks
And there she was:
A pile of muddy clothing in the street.
The flames from her bike
Cast a shadow beside her
That looked more like a person
Than she did.
AMANDA #2
“Oh, God,” I said. “Is that a body?”
My wife couldn’t speak.
I pulled to the shoulder, behind another car. The driver sat motionless as I walked past. There was nothing to be done that hadn’t been done already: one of the onlookers had placed her hands on her chest, her helmet before her face. No one spoke or even shook his head. When I saw what they saw, I shook my head for them.
As I walked back to my car, a woman pulled up in a light grey minivan, rolling down her window.
“There’s a body in the middle of the street,” I explained.
She made a sound in her throat and bit her lip. “Do you think I could still get by?” she asked.
AMANDA #3
This is what I couldn’t say
To those who would have listened:
She looked like she’d been folded
By someone or Something
That didn’t understand the human body
I was trained for this
But couldn’t get close
Instead I circled wide around her feet
Fearing
And, sadly, ashamed to feel
A deadly deep and dreamlike sense
That whatever had done this
Enjoyed itself
Was hovering there
And hungry, still