Making Amends

He is making amends to his victims
in a swarm of their ghosts, enduring
the blades, beatings, wringing hands—
each angry shade tearing at his soul
as their own deaths rebloom and blacken.

For thirty years, few women walked
that city alone. In dreams they shrank
beneath his police sketch, took to prayer
in the gore of his wake. The law’s eyes
went bloodshot seeking answers.

When at last he died in old age, a pack
of shades broke from limbo, scurried
like bats to the gates of hell. There they
howled and wept and dragged him away.
He is making amends to his victims.

Comments