Weeknight News Reports
We’ve climbed up on the roof before,
barefoot and shivering, at one time
there were no empty rooms, so many people in
the house, sounds of living and maybe
even singing. A voice that wasn’t ours.
We heard it then, under all those blazing stars
I mean pixels. Screen glows from within,
pulses in a waterfall, some kind of heartbeat
when we finally get up to close the door
when we do our homework after all these hours.
My mother calls, I want to be right where you are,
sleep, I love you, TV ruins your eyes.
It’s 11 pm and death is on my mind,
accidents upon accidents, blood and gore
somewhere in the streets, she
is the time passing and sick, invading dark
people gone missing—could she have been?
No, says my sister, but she’s young and has no power
over things we can’t trust and things we can’t see.
I’m young and have no power, am small, never win
but I check the empty driveway, look up at the sky line
inside, it’s my sister; outside, the lights and cars,
and all I want are her footsteps upstairs, the shower
running in the bathroom, her work clothes on the floor.
I daydream of flashes and have visions of scars
studding the roads, the bodies, my mother and flowers
I left her, Fiji in the back seat and rosary beads
I prophesy the petals tearing, stems breaking into the night
as glass shatters the world and blends into her skin,
she doesn’t pick up and I’m still watching the war
footage from Iraq. Fallujah’s dust rises into towers
and creates people out of nothing, I blink and start
to think my eyes are deceiving me. Behind, my sister snores
and listening I think that the roof would be cold by now, heat
extinguished in the stars above the lamplights hanging, pinned.
This is the part where we find out she dies.