MARY LYNNE EVANS



LOSING IT AFTER THE SHOOTING


Cold linoleum, cold moon, shards of glass.
The clod of clay beneath my cheek, face pressing
hard on the floor. There were screams at Mickey Deeís
when the tall kid hit the floor hard, his dreadlocks in real blood,
not just catsup blasted from a plastic bag.
He just hit the floor hard, French fries falling like gentle mercy
on his smooth face. Then two more shots, and we all hit the floor.
Jackson, lying on my left side, whispered, "The kid wasnít bad,
just f___ed the wrong girl." The dead kidís big eyes keep
staring at the shattered door like itís the way out. Iím cold under this
orange plastic seat, Jackson whimpering, lying on my left leg so it
goes to sleep like when I was a baby.
Jackson and me just wanted cheeseburgers.
Whatís more important at Mickey Deeís than burgers and fries?
Everyone down on a dirty linoleum,
hunched like clumps of clay.


Copyright Mary Lynne Evans, 1995


Mary Lynne Evansí poetry has appeared in Brussels Sprouts, Toy Boat, and Surprise Me. She works as a land use planner and lives in Seattle.