Schrodinger's Newspaper

I push open the creaky screen door
and stoop down to pick it up
because I must know.
It comes rolled up with the headlines inside
a fortune cookie stuffed with misfortunes.
Crack it open and suffering will spill out.

I hesitate. Until I smooth the paper flat
tyrant and victim hover, suspended.
Until I read, the bullet hasn't left the gun,
the hammer hasn't hit the skull,
the suicide bomber hasn't pushed the button.

The nails and gunpowder will stay
packed tight in their satchel under the shirt.
The girl in the market will stand forever
with her hand on the melon, smiling.

The odds are clear. Death will take his share
and not be cheated. I open and read.
I ache, knowing I can't stop what already is.

And yet, every morning, my front steps are still here.
My screen door, the wet grass, the neighbor's cat, still here.
The rolled baton of newsprint on the step
is cool proof that the presses ran all night,
in that big building downtown, also still here.



poem by Cheryl Gatling
art by LIzard Incognito


And we are still here, both villain and victim, tossed about by the vicissitudes of fate...

Pie Jesu, miserere nobis, dona nobis pacem. Dona eis requiem.
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