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Description
Do killers dream of oceans -
tucked deep in a cocoon,
spooning their wives
nestled deep in the soft chaos
of their arms?

Do they walk their children
to school, coats neatly
buttoned against strangers,
and take their tiny hands
like wounded birds
in their own,
counting red cars
and clutching bouquets of
daisies for the teacher?

Can they cook chicken soup
like their grandmothers did -
fistfuls of parsley and thyme
to soothe the iron pot,
stirring carrots and potatoes
with the first shift
of autumn's silver maple?

Do they make sandcastles
and leave their footprints
in the middle of July
and count the starfish
that nudge and wink in
the tidepools, their mottled
fingers pointing east?

Or have they only debris -
a life skewed and stretched
beyond human and the
sudden drop of pressure,
a lost companion,
dreading what wells up
from the surface and
sucks them underneath?

Description
Do killers dream of oceans -
tucked deep in a cocoon,
spooning their wives
nestled deep in the soft chaos
of their arms?

Do they walk their children
to school, coats neatly
buttoned against strangers,
and take their tiny hands
like wounded birds
in their own,
counting red cars
and clutching bouquets of
daisies for the teacher?

Can they cook chicken soup
like their grandmothers did -
fistfuls of parsley and thyme
to soothe the iron pot,
stirring carrots and potatoes
with the first shift
of autumn's silver maple?

Do they make sandcastles
and leave their footprints
in the middle of July
and count the starfish
that nudge and wink in
the tidepools, their mottled
fingers pointing east?

Or have they only debris -
a life skewed and stretched
beyond human and the
sudden drop of pressure,
a lost companion,
dreading what wells up
from the surface and
sucks them underneath?