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.