portion of the artwork for Daniel Gallik's poetry
A Bustling Metropolis
Daniel Gallik

I found her dead,

by a fan. Apparently,
she went to plug in
the thing. And it fought back.

I called the police.
Kind of a dumb thing to do.
(My reactions weren’t driven
by intelligence.) They came,

called the emergency folks.
Pronounced her dead. Then
they all started talking to me.

I went to the fridge.
Got a peach (it was summer).
And did not look into their eyes.
As I began to answer questions.
But first I told all of them.

I loved her. That roused
suspicions. (Death is like that.)
All of them thought I was guilty.
Even me. So did the courts.
All of them. Then I was executed
after twenty years of talking.
And writing briefs. And thinking
about all this. All this
for one life on a hot summer day
in the middle of a vengeful city.

While those in the suburbs
read their papers. Watched tv.
And ate between meals.
In a country that likes,
adores, fondles suspicions.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 33 | Summer 2011