It could have happened the way the firemen assumed—but it didn’t. Sparks from a neighbor’s controlled burn of a field could have drifted across the road, could have set a second field on fire—but they didn’t. I could have admitted that I caught the tips of dried grass afire, whisked them to the next field, and delighted in the small spread of flames—but I didn’t. When the neighborhood gathered around the firemen, I could have spoken up, kept an innocent man from being reprimanded—but I didn’t. I could have told my brothers and friends how excited and frightened I was when the flames flared beyond stomping out—but I didn’t. I could at least have whispered my sin to the priest in the dark booth of the confessional, could have said five Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers, could have been forgiven—but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
deathbed
holding close the bones
of a secret
is an Albuquerque author with three books of poetry, Leaf and Beak: Sonnets; Presence; and Vegetables and Other Relationships; and the editor of several volumes, including Wingbeats: Exercises & Practice in Poetry I & II, and 22 Poems and a Prayer for El Paso, winner of a NM/AZ Book Award in 2020. He is a member of the Texas Institute of Letters, and a frequent workshop instructor, especially in poetic form.
