half a story

 
 


 
the children on the bus don't speak, don't look
at those two, there
with scaffolded shoulders
brittle necks kinked askew
 

those two, who know
that everybody knows
about the other two children
lying somewhere
tubes in, arms out
 

don't look, no need
it's heavy in their clothes, damp from rain
that smell of poor
starched flat with hand-me-down sin
satchels carrying the sound of gunshot
and letters written red:
adulteress, murderess
 

they're silent, for now
but nothing so damning
as a small town, turned
nothing so vicious
as a busload of children, armed
with half a story