It was Wednesday.
Not long into the class,
as he gave a perfectly secure look
in her direction:

He noticed the bruises with special horror.
How could the universe
so good as to lavish us with green meadows, sunsets,
birds, stars and mornings
harm her?

Perverse universe.

Yet, O present moment, you permit no equivocation.
There are the bruises:
One hurt on each perfect knee,
slightly inside to her left;
the right is worse than the left.

With the gratitude of the irrational, he prayed:
thanks be to God: the sores are healing
may these bruises be completely healed at once.

An urbane woman would have worn pants, or
a long dress to hide the sores.
But she, being indifferent to fashion and to cruel taste,
wore black department store shorts.

He knew the inside story.
He knew the inner guilt of the tabloid cub reporter.
With the sudden grace of a high thought,
She had come into his office the previous day
to say that she had missed Monday's class
because of the accident, and that
she had been in the wrong.

She had spoken other words.

Perverse universe.
 

James Bolner, Sr.
Baton Rouge, La.
February, 1994