Her Hand

lying on the wood floor

next to the bed

like an orange peel, curled

white, stringy

I can imagine

too what she saw: her frail blond son

of eight standing in the doorway

wearing coveralls to protect

his skin

One last

torment before she waved

it all away

I see her there

often, sprawled on the bed

with one arm flung

over the side, the hand

lying palm up on the floor

next to the gun

Her white gown is like

a blotter, blood blooms all

over her heaving red chest, she

goes down, her eyes

go down

I was playing

on a step ladder in the yard,

the handyman was pruning trees.

I heard the shot too, but

did not know it until he said

Oh my god! Miss Lurline! Miss Lurline!

I was afraid to follow him, afraid

to be left alone