THE DEATH OF AN AIRTRAFFIC CONTROLLER
Mulhouse, between Switzerland and
Germany, France; narrowing the focus,
say airport, then control tower, its tight-
knit network of offices, cubicles, paths
of least resistance erupting like a flower
whose stack of blooms is each another floor.
A corner office, maybe, or the one
across the hall from the one
he really wanted: its windows only
catch the light between noon and one
and the secretary attached to it always
reminded him
of the girl he loved in high school, in
the way she looked up with her lips
parted slightly and her hair all dark
and nearly brown but red, really, red.
Small consolation it may have been—
to see how effortlessly his blood
matched the color, to be reminded of her
as he bled out at eight in the morning,
the sunlight creeping in already,
lapping at his face.
