Clint Smith
that were floating in the water for several weeks//their skin was not their skin anymore//their faces were no longer their faces//families attempted to identify their kin//by whatever was left//a wristwatch full of water that fogged the glass//the hands stuck on 4:42//unclear if it was early morning or late afternoon//the pair of brown leather shoes she had just purchased with her husband//she remembers because they were on sale//& he said they would buy ice cream that afternoon with the money they saved// like they had when they were kids//who knew only of love & not the heartbreak etched in its wake//or the small gold cross he wore//even though he believed in no god//i mean what is god in a city suffocated by inertia's heavy hand//what is prayer but words that always seem to drown//but he knew his wife loved to see him wearing the treasured ornament//loved the way its golden gleam kissed his skin as it bounced softly on his chest//so he left the trinket around his neck//& that's how we knew it was him//who else could it be//no//thank you//i don't need to see//his face//again//i'm sure