Three Murders

It was a blistering African afternoon, the freewheeling sky
Brilliant duck-egg blue, chilly, crystal cut.
I was there when he blacked out.
It was my fist that dealt a trained jab to the
Back of his skull, my eyes watching his eyes roll up
Back into his head. I looked on as he spun like the sky.
When the parachute finally opened it was too late
To do anything about the spreading crimson
On the snowy mustache. The man was nobody, but now
His body would be a hero.

It was an anxious, sweaty night in the hospital
As they waited for her dialysis to end. I stepped in halfway
Through and though clouded by age and pain
I thought her eyes still saw me. Like a thief I stole,
Unplugging her tubes and waiting for the cold electronic
Green of the flatline. Matter-of-factly it cried out for her, chirping
Its warning to her kin. They rushed in but though I
Was there they saw me not at all. The yellow air squirmed
As they prayed for her soul.

It was a dull and cold Canadian winter
Grey as the hairs left on his head. He lay cracked and
Spent on the adjustable bed, silently punishing everyone
Who looked upon his form. When we were done
Visiting I stayed behind alone to do
What had started it all.
I took his pillow fluffed with care by my aunt
And placed it almost reverently on his twisted face
Until he was somewhere else.
By the time the first wail began I was well
On my way back home, determined but failing to forget.

(Rest in peace, Warrant Tan.
Rest in peace, Mrs. Sng.
Rest in peace, Yeye.)