Kara Wright
I will die in Indianapolis, on a balmy, late spring day,
on a day I hope won’t happen too soon,
a day when the sun rises early and sets late.
I will die in Indianapolis—back at home for my final days—
hopefully on a Sunday, when everyone’s got some down time.
It will be a Sunday, because that day, Sunday,
is a day of rest, but a day when anything can happen.
Definitely a Sunday, because Sunday, once my least
favorite day, is the end—
the end of the weekend,
the end of a hard week of work,
the end of whatever.
And because today—
Sunday—when the pen
hit my notebook page,
the many hundreds of Sundays flashed before me,
and I knew.
Kara Wright is dead.
On a faraway Sunday, just as the long
June sun sank, so did she.
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