Sep 13, 2011

Police Report

Written by Hannah Craig

Read by David Welch

All those who can have turned their windows dark.
Nobody wants to look into the sleepless gaze
of the house where things ran out. I mean to say,
the things that carried him. Or so they said,
who witnessed all that noise, a tea-colored moon
in its biggest, roundest form, a pregnant belly,
and the valley fog gone wandering up the road.
The sound they heard was like a sow, gleeful,
just tucked into corn. The facts, though; I was after those.
They ran and hid. He was wearing green,
they said. A frog-headed bathrobe
and one striped sock. I wondered if they
shook the kid. Or if he wandered off,
though the mother said he could not lift the latch.
She showed me through the gall-swept, widdered room
where I began to believe. What makes shadows
that don’t leave when the living do?
And on the floor beside the bed,
a scrubby stick, two yellow leaves pinned on
like jaundiced eyes. Unblinking, starred.
She couldn’t bear to throw it out.
Evidence, I said. She numbly stroked
the dry face of the wood.
It stared up at the corner of the room.
A hint of breeze. The curtains stirred.