An Accident in Rosarito
Jeff Burt


It was neither the monotone
of the song the child sang,
nor the slow pendular
sweep of the boy’s arms swaying
side to side in the shadows,
nor the sudden rise and faltering fall
of the slim withered breasts
of his grandmother dying at his feet,
nor the soft murmuring
of rain falling on cobblestone,
nor the poor thud of raindrops gathered
at the eaves and propelled to the fair legs
of the woman exposed to the light,
nor the light as it fixed on cinder
and stone and wind-punished soil,
nor the light on the wet rain-hammered
shingles above the glistening eaves,
nor the boy suspended in the buoyant notes
of his grief with his eyes fixed
on the rain dropping
and gathering and dropping
at the eaves caught by the gray light,
for these were all beautiful,
all perfected, pure,
rather it was the end to the rain,
the end of that light, the lowering of song,
the slow relapse of her breath,
the boy swaying,
swung still.


Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California. Likes the aroma of sharpened pencils. Recent work in eclectica, The Cortland Review, and phren-z.