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The Ubiquitous Violence

David Sapp

(Regrettably, this is all true.)
A stunning day, the summer of 1977,
Brenda scoops ice cream alone
at the Round Hill Dairy counter.

She is the perfect blend of
too pretty and condescension.
I drag her outside. I stab her 22 times.
Later, I’ll wonder: why 22?

I’d prefer 22 flavors, something more
than vanilla, chocolate, strawberry,
or butter pecan which keeps me up at night.
Or simply, at 22, my fury seems sated.

There is rage at birth, at death, and
enduring my ponderous decay in-between.
I need, I want, I desire, and in the pursuit
of my demands, there is endless suffering.

I am slighted, neglected, ostracized.
I am abused, raped, nearly eradicated:
a person, a village, a nation, a generation.
I am not a unique abomination,
no wonder the ubiquitous violence.

My fix, my cure: I shall be a life
minimized, no anticipation of love,
affection or ice cream, though the need
for nothingness becomes the fixation.
(You must see the complication.)

Now, happy, oblivious kids lick
around cones, at umbrellaed tables,
on the same spot where, don’t forget,
Brenda nearly bled to death.

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