Family Killed
Jessi Hempel

She knew, at least, that water drains
clockwise on this
side of the
equator.
She knew that air
enters the lungs when
the chest is
raised,
that a sigh of defeat, that air not released
will catch
& hold
still.

She knew that every child is
a blueprint
reflecting the integrety
of its archetects, that sometimes
coffee spills, blurs lines,
confuses things,
but the stains always
dry.

Before rest,
when the sun had
nearly-not-quite
set,
she knew the smell of
little-boy
stenched into the length of wood
which lay perpendicular
to her heart, daring
the length of her spine.