WHY HE SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SOLD
6,000 ROUNDS OF AMMUNITION
Because the young woman in the theaterís first row
raises zinnias and her tomatoes are ripening,
because her baby is teething
and her husband, away on business,
dreams of three little girls, bare-legged,
eating ice cream cones.
Because, in July, monarchs lay eggs
on the underside of milkweed leaves,
and a hummingbirdís flutter
stirs the nasturtiums, and
because today the sun rose with a green flash,
le rayon vert, and I believed Jules Verne
who wrote that those who see this
will know love.
Because the white-bearded man in the third row
has a schnauzer that needs to be walked,
and because his grandchildren are visiting tomorrow
and he has four quarts of his own spaghetti sauce
on a shelf in the freezer .
Because the balding man in the fourth row
doesnít want to die lonely,
and because the man and woman beside him
are afraid to make a commitment.
Because the artist in the back of the theater
will, for the rest of his life, swirling his brush
into Winsor red, see blood,
and because the University student in row five,
who speaks Shoshone with his grandmother,
is translating Native American myths:
how in the beginning, Wolf, the creator,
shooting an arrow beneath the body of the dead,
could call them back to life.
Copyright, Suellen Wedmore.