Sacrament, Emily Piccard

Sacrament

My neighbor is robbed one night At gunpoint On the pavement that fronts the house

Where his wife and three year-old son Sleep in a bed behind a folding paper screen The color of the moon over a milky bay

He throws his wallet—that’s what they want, the money—if he throws it far Enough they won’t shoot him for

Fifty dollars and a receipt from The supermarket All creased and faded

No one knows who it is Because there are no street lamps on Our street, only a dark that smells like

Woodsmoke and orange blossoms and Food on a stovetop: papery noodles And borscht, and spaghetti and flour tortillas

The next day our street stews under A red dawn, and the voices of Neighbors rise

Above the tangle of fruit trees, clotheslines A plastic pool, two feet deep, in which My neighbor’s son sits

20 Pillars of Salt

Samantha Rosenwald

Unaware that he might have Spent the night in a hospital Or precinct station, or morgue

As talk turns to who owns a gun And who knows how to use one And why no one ever thinks to call the police

The street’s children Upend plastic cups of pool-water Over the crowns of their heads

Lift their chins To a burnished sky Baptizing themselves in hungry summer

Emily Piccard ’14 *Poet Laureate Runner Up

Pillars of Salt 21