Three Bodies in the Park

One body sleeps sitting with bare
ash-colored feet. Her feet

are fat with bloat and the bottoms
of them are the paleness of a dark someone

who patted that whitening pond
with palms and soles. I want to wash

her legs, ankles, and feet
-- not with whitening, but

to clean them of dust.
The second body is a man who

sleeps on a picnic table bench
with his arm flung over onto

the table in the same way
my smiling, two-year-old

son throws his arm over me
if I lie next to him. With this one,

I want to introduce myself into
his embrace like that: as a mother

with a drink of water.
The third body -- shrouded in a white

tarp, feet splayed and sticking
out, half a face showing --

this one is ignored by all
as if he were each our own corpse.

I want nothing with him.

Copyright Louise Robertson