The second shot screamed and
restrained the rest of the grins and claps
lapping up milky, concrete streets
Something internal
dictating inhumane reactions out of her, wanting to
sew jagged parts of skull together, later,
hoping the American public might help thread a needle
Her hands weren’t steady like they used to be
Maybe chaos could be wiped and shed cleaner than
Blood bathing white lace gloves, that covered quivering fingers

Stained skull, candied like cherry juice
seeping from George Washington’s cherry tree (people
believed so, even then) chopped down
slowly imprinting fibers of cotton and silk
blends, suddenly transformed into the world’s
dusty blue jeans
Lady Liberty’s iron once tried to rid the wrinkles of

How lightly the President graced roses
white as a reflection of fair weather culumus clouds
Thermals thanked by American weathermen, now watching
Glory tucked away in the past deep into a date to remember
November 22, 1963
“Dallas, we have a problem,” nothing else could be said
Bushes of roses, sprinkled with presidential blood

Cloth, camel cushioned seats lined his head
a motioned grave, she refused and swept
fingertips, vacuuming shards of cheekbone, scraps of
A previous moment still standing as she reached out again

Smothered by sweat seeping bodies
their chance for a moment, a starred moment, “I was there,”
their excitement unwelcomed, unfamiliar through lighter versions of
governmental suits and the mist of adrenaline
Her body tensed, sniffing the air for his scent, wanting to sense
His fear, too