Sleeper

I slept through the death of Jesus Rios.

Ted heard the shots, sat up in the dark,

listened for more. A car may have sped off

but nothing else. We sleep with the air conditioner fan on

year-round, to mask the noise of traffic and gunfire,

so I couldn't say if there's been a lot of gunfire lately,

late at night, when the bars get out, when the cars

race by. We do it on purpose so we can

sleep the few hours we need. But it's hard

to believe, when the shots went off maybe forty

feet away, and Jesus caught them

in the gut or chest or head and probably made

some kind of sound, I slept on.

His assailant, his shooter held

the gun still in one or two hands and saw what he had

accomplished. Did he make a sound? Say anything?

Did he grimace? Did he grin? Did his heart race?

Skin grow cold with persperation? How does that

feel to see Jesus drop and slump and curl

in the quiet Sunday morning? Was there any motive,

any personal reason, some transgression of Jesus'

against this other guy? Or was he taken surprised,

innocent, just because he was there

as they drove up to the corner, the red light.

Should I try to find out? Was he a gangster

living net door? We not knowing, smiling as we

walked past his yard to the store. Either way,

should I take one of these roses Dianne gave us,

add it to the cardboard sidewalk altar

put up by his friends, by the mothers and girls and children

who go by to the store, stop to read the memorial notes,

study the photo of Jesus' smiling face.

Carol Colin, 1997