We decided to have the abortion, became <br />killers together. The period that came <br />changed nothing. They were dead, that young couple <br />who had been for life. <br />As we talked of it in bed, the crash <br />was not a surprise. We went to the window, <br />looked at the crushed cars and the gleaming <br />curved shears of glass as if we had <br />done it. Cops pulled the bodies out <br />Bloody as births from the small, smoking <br />aperture of the door, laid them <br />on the hill, covered them with blankets that soaked <br />through. Blood <br />began to pour <br />down my legs into my slippers. I stood <br />where I was until they shot the bound <br />form into the black hole <br />of the ambulance and stood the other one <br />up, a bandage covering its head, <br />stained where the eyes had been. <br />The next morning I had to kneel <br />an hour on that floor, to clean up my blood, <br />rubbing with wet cloths at those glittering <br />translucent spots, as one has to soak <br />a long time to deglaze the pan <br />when the feast is over. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Sharon Olds<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-end/
