Jason Huskey, 7/11

By A Baker’s Hand

A
boy
sitting
across from
the bakery spies
the flash of failure’s report.  We
scatter about sidewalks;
women and
tears flow
like
crème.

A
girl
waiting
inside the
bakery knows fear
for the first and final time.  We
duck and pray and fall–
collapsed flesh
against
hot
stone.

A
man
standing
with a gun
forgets why he came,
frozen to fire from his hand.  Our
screams mute his madness
as the boy
boards his
bus
home.

The Thing That Should Not Be

I am a thing
that should not be.
So she says,
as she pulls the cover
ever closer to my chin.
A hand along my chest,
the other inches toward
my widow’s peak.
And then the pressure.

Down.

The glaze of shadow
shallowed through tears.
An incandescent halo.
Taking me away.

And like a switch.
A rustle of nurses
closes in.
The thrust of death
declines for this thing
that should not be.

In its place comes a kiss.
Dry lips against
my blood-filled cheek.

And out into the fragrant hallway
she marches
my grandbabies.
Ready to ruin a Sunday
as surely as she’ll say
she loves me
to anyone who asks

Promote. Poetry.
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