in a room with too many doors and
some of them open and
some of them closed and always
the fingers of ghosts down your spine

always the bones of aztecs dragged
into the 21st century as a
silent reminder

the bodies of nuns found raped
and slaughtered in roadside ditches

and your hands nervous at the
edges of the page and
your wife seven months pregnant and
the way she cries when the phone rings

the way she apologizes for
all of the times she's ever told you
she hated you

and what holds you together is fear
and what you have in common
is the weight of desperation

a postcard from the hill of fifteen crosses
with a message on the back
that reads i miss you

and when she asks
if you love your father
you tell her that he's dead
and if she says that's not an answer
you just smile

you tell her about
the sand creek massacre

the women and children butchered
by drunken soldiers
while they lay sleeping
and then you tell her about
this kid you knew in high school

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