I confronted your denial, but it wouldn’t budge; instead, it insisted that today would be better than yesterday and a good deal worse than tomorrow. I wondered how this was possible since your window overlooks the crash site, the bodies laying twisted and alone in the rain, decaying in front of your lawn.
You told me that the departed get better with time, that in a week some would even reanimate and walk away. But I looked again this morning and all I saw was an aging Picasso, caked with dried blood. All eight victims accounted for, melting like clocks in the sun.
Amy Friedman teaches English at Harper College and earned her MA in Comparative Literature from Northwestern University. She is a regular contributor to Newcity, and her poetry and creative nonfiction have appeared in Fractal, Extract(s) and other publications.