Not Even Hell by Rich Quatrone



I lie naked on the couch, stuck inside
while outside my window, still in shade the thermometer
reads 99 degrees. Ten minutes ago I remember the wiltered
flowers and went out to water them. I slipped on shorts
only and the sun on my back burned immediately.
Back upstairs, I removed the shorts and lie
naked on the couch with the air conditioning on.
I read DuBois’s book about the souls of black folks
and read in that moment about the death of his baby
child. I cannot continue reading it is so utterly painful,
DuBois’s prose so eloquent, so clear, so shockingly
How do such things happen, I can ask myself.
But in truth so much worse happens.
So much worse to babies, children, parents.
I sit at this keyboard now still naked.

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