I Did Not Do It
That cheap leather belt
tossed on the floor is yours,
not mine.
Those angry wounds
wrapped around my neck,
that guilt is yours.
I had the new books for homeschooling,
hand-sewn turquoise and pink ribbon dresses for my girls,
herbs and pine nuts gathered from the desert.
The purple Nevada sky hides no lies.
You know the truth, as do I.
And three tiny dark-eyed girls gaze
at a freshly filled grave,
plump earth adorned with pink flowers
that will wither in a day.
My Paiute mother tells me
don’t come back,
there is nothing here for you,
don’t visit anyone in their dreams,
your work here is done.
But I tell you—
I did not do it.
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About this poem:
A month ago, a family member of mine perished under suspicious circumstances at the too-young age of 28. Initially thought to be a suicide, investigators now believe it was an incidence of domestic partner violence. The case remains open and is being actively investigated by law enforcement. Our family demands answers and justice.
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Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, The New York Quarterly, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Amethyst Review, Crow & Cross Keys, Loch Raven Review, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women (Woodhall Press) and Tuesdays at Curley’s (Yuganta Press).
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