River Heroin Comments

I am here as they pull out a woman, stiff and quiet as a doll, from the river. I stand rather rigid myself, wondering. Of her rigor mortis and of the fish. The selfish still swim, even though our town has no rivers, but we do have so much sorrow in our wake.

Later, I walk into small church never far away, one where she and I had sung as children. I swim up silent shiny aisle, under painted surface of low heavens. In nearing distance, the tabernacle, far as the past. Diminishing emptiness in between, except for the coffin.
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