Ian Randall Wilson's poem in Literary Potpourri

What if the road had been closed that day
because of an environmental impact study
or washed out from a mudslide
or just too damn overgrown
for anyone to pass through?
Red and I would have been married,
our children with freckled complexions,
my long nose, some version
of her "flaming hair."
That's a dead metaphor, I know,
but every time I pass the spot
I get mad, then desperate.
I move through all five stages of grief
before driving down the road.

There's a small concrete monument
that's been set-up, cracking from bad cement,
next to one of those trinket stores
that bring in the tourists on their way east.
Facsimile copies of the original news report,
a replica of the picnic basket
and the cape,
all for thirty-nine ninety-five.
It's trash, as poorly made as the monument--
but they buy it,
they bring it home.
Who knows where it goes,
where it ends up.

I've been married twenty years now
and I can't forget her.
When my kid came home from a field trip
with a picture of the wolf
I took it outside and burned it,
even though he cried.

IN A CERTAIN VILLAGE

by

Ian Randall Wilson