Author Information
At A Civil Action
He thought we had come to lynch him---
this photographer of secret and dark events,
done in medieval dungeons that were once
fruit or storm cellars, or storage basements;
injuries inflicted upon young naked girls
by hooded men in archaic robes
who proved their several openings
like parasites drawn to a victim.
No matter the discretions of secrecy,
the bragging rights eventually assert themselves,
and a word let slip will slip the knot of the noose;
but not now, not at our hands. We do not stoop
to such methods. We only detained him a while---
enough time to disclose to the school board
(the lucrative contract for yearbook pictures,
and exclusive rights to sports events,
was hastily withdrawn by unanimous vote).
Each bride who had booked his services
received the appropriate information;
and, man, the rush to cancellation
made the metaphorical head spin.
And not one church's recommendation
to any prospective couple, ever again.
Of course, no delicate way existed
for us to tell his wife and children
that they would be quietly shunned in public
and laughingly mocked in private.
After three or four days, they fled the village;
after three or four months, divorce was final
(strings having been pulled like a hangman's rope
strung over the convenient limb of some random tree).
He tried to start to drink, but the only bar
nearby refused to serve him anything
but open contempt. Pranks kept it interesting---
to let him know that no one had forgotten;
and that such darkness would not be tolerated.
After sometime, he relieved himself
of the trouble, and us of the continued efforts.
He hung himself in a crude manner.
The coroner thought that the final minutes
may have brought indescribale agony.
We buried him, intestate and destitute,
in a pauper's grave, that remains unmarked.
But we know where it is---grass never grows much, there,
a place where men and occasional dogs stop to piss.
