We looked at it from all angles,
the thing, wrapped and unmoving,
faded red and unreachable, but
because of our young distances
and the street curbs were lines
we were forbidden to cross,
our story of that thing
in the middle of the street
remained uncertain for days.
Yes, we did agreed on the story.
It was a woman`s arm
left behind to rot
after a fight with a man
she knew, who slammed
the car door too fast
and much too hard.
It must have hurt.
For three days cars drove past
to the queasy gasp of children,
half-scared, half-hoping to see skin.
It made you glad
you were with friends.
Sunday evening a street-walking boy
poked fun at our story
as he whipped the unraveling rag
into the purple sky.
Even he jumped a little
as the sticks inside
clattered to the street
like bones.
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