by Russell Rowland

Traffic on Route 3, a block over:
in the icicle intruding on my view
tonight, each taillight is prismed:
blood in an intravenous drip.

Sometimes, a whole line of cars
apply their brakes: a rush
of blood. Sometimes, in this
aging town, emergency vehicles

flash through. The whole icicle
turns red for an instant. That’s
the immaculate heart of Jesus,
bleeding for sick and dead.

Richard, from across the street,
is dying at the regional hospital.
His widow-to-be just got home,
slowly walking her walker in.

She’ll return tomorrow. Soon,
television flickering on
in her darkened living room
turns my icicle blue.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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