On My Street by Anna Citrino

Blade, bullet, rope—what he used
is not revealed. The body

ends up on my street.
Half-way across the world

I read emailed news, hear a tailgate's
metal hinge clank open.

Stifled foot tread. Branches snap.
An animal scrambles away to hide.

Beneath trees and tangled moonlight,
a man pulls a body from a truck bed,

hefts it to an embankment, shoves
the weight into brambled darkness,

down into stubbled shrubs
and leaf mulch. Done.

Inside neighborhood houses mothers,
fathers whisper last good nights.

Blankets pulled up, lights out.
No movement, music, or voice.

Owl eyes click shut.
Fog crawls in.

Truck door locked,
down the road he rolls.

Blood throbs in his ears.
Crickets cry.

Anna Citrino is the author of A Space Between, and Buoyant, Saudade, and To Find a River. You can find her going for walks near the coast or biking on paths through a forest where she lives in Sonoma County. Read more of her writing at annacitrino.com.