Bubble and Squeak

by Gerald Yelle

Used to see her all the time, languishing by the lakeside:
blue-eyed Andalusian bandini, somebody’s stick-figure
understudy, chaser of rainbows, blond to the roots and
all over glowing. Delicate petals unfurl on misty mornings
and dare survive a summer storm. The killer, unable to deal
with a girl who can love on the seventh and leave on the
eighth, lets his blade do the singing and every breath in the
aftermath’s an extravagance. The family convenes beneath
a black red awning. News spreads its acid lilies. My
friend falsely confesses. I don’t believe he even knew her.
I don’t see how he could’ve done it. Or why he said he did,
why he disappeared just after she died. Other friends ask.
Mine want to know why I hide in the forest when the worst
I do is press crumpled dollars in a dancer’s sticky palm.