Late History

Todd Heldt

Not so hard, this being found,
say, at the edge of the road,
out past the woods. You were
stumbling dumb through the briars
when someone called your name.

Or you wanted to be the boy
they pulled from the well and
wrapped in wool blankets
while the world dabbed at their eyes.
Was that what set you walking?

Get used to it, the man said.
In the city you worked in an office,
with a blind man and a prostitute.
You were the last wall of lies
that propped the building up.

Each morning you woke, shuddered
at the blood on your pillow.
One day the sky bloomed with fire,
and the windows rained people.
Smoke hung over the subway tracks.

In an alley you found a woman
rummaging the mud for flowers,
weeds, anything to spruce her house.
It could be enough for two
wrapped tight as fiddle strings.

Still your soup was littered with bones,
and you longed for the sun to stretch
your shadow. You prayed to bump
your head on your doorway, look up,
and see that you are home.