how far must i run?
i cannot go much longer
how far to safety?
“It’s the right thing, Buck, you know that,” Arlo says. He stares at his younger brother, then hangs his head, sees his own big toes poking through the holes in the tops of his classic checkerboard Vans. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“I know,” Buck says. He still has a linen napkin tucked into his neck to protect his Hermès Hiding Rabbit tie, an anniversary gift from his wife last year. “And you’re sure this is the last one?”
Arlo looks up and nods his head. “Like I said on the phone.” He gives his brother a look that leaves no doubt. Pointing to the corpse, he says, “I smacked him on the head with my DeWalt half-inch socket wrench,” re-enacting the scene. “You know that thing will put someone down!”
Buck half smiles, then shudders.
rain pelts my naked skin
i hear thunder, i see — CRACK!
i fall to the ground
“I can’t be involved in this, Arlo!” Buck says, pulling the napkin free to wipe his forehead. “My life now isn’t…” looking down at his Gucci Jordaan crocodile loafers, at the dead man, back at his brother, “…isn’t this.” The smell of oily rags mixed with blood makes him wretch.
Arlo reaches into the left hip pocket of his grimy Levi’s and pulls out a locket.
“Do not do that to me, Arlo!”
“Dammit, Buck, everything in my life has been — is — about Mama!” Arlo’s head drops again, heavier, his voice with it. “Everything…” The locket falls to the floor.
lying in the wet grass
pain shooting like rockets
through my core
“Why can’t you–” Buck stops. He knows how Mama’s death damaged his brother. Damaged himself. But Buck got past it. He’d worked to get past it!
“This is the last one,” says Arlo.
“Okay,” Buck says. Beaten. “Okay. The last one.” It’s the right thing.
The brothers roll the dead man in black landscaping plastic, secure it with duct tape, and throw it in the back of Arlo’s beat-up F-150. They drive toward the woods to put this body with the others.
in my final breath
i call, i scream to all the gods
let my sons avenge me!