Jim Greenhalf
Reflections of a drunken chronicler
Defeated by love’s memory,
as I knew I always would be.
Tonight I come face to face
with the self I could not see
in the crushed rear of the car
bringing home mother and baby:
blood on the seat, the bouquet
a wreath. A halo of flames
above the face of a fan
in the valley of the dead.
The ripped bodies of Helen Rytka
and Yvonne Chapman.
The sounds of a Wednesday night
none of them will live
again to hear. Their light
prepares the way for me.
But who is there to remember,
who is there to forgive?
Page(s) 89
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