She sees Rick in everything:          
the child’s ears, a robin,
television.

It was her gun he used,
but his car she found
him in.

Wind brought charred
headlines, instructions
for a VCR.

His was a breech birth,
upside down and
topsy turvy.

He loved swings, round-
abouts, whatever made
him dizzy.

He almost did it then, but
the gun would not work
for him.

They sat on the hill,
waiting for the
aftershocks.

She knew the way it
began and also how
it ended.

Not his fault, but the rift
between them
widened.

Some said a knife,
others, he would
never.

There were signs: animal
cries, dead birds,
temblors.

Or it could have been
this; the child is
not telling.

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