The Anniversary of the Explosion at the Air Bag Plant
My husband has carried the plaid of you
each day since your blood imprinted on his marrow,
I wish you would come on wings
of an owl to declare that life is just a series
of explosions, that we are all lucky
until we are not.
But this is something we living do,
give words to the dead, and I know nothing
of you but your shadow’s girth and how
when the company painted over
the plaque erected on the last place
your body touched earth, your family spray painted a boulder
with the date of your death. We saw them once
in the light of dusk, they formed half a ring, bore
tulips. All my husband could bring
himself to do was watch from the shoulder,
where each year the pavement grows
and the brush recedes.
Brigid Maloney was born in the Bronx, raised in a union hall in Seattle, and currently resides in Arizona where she is a member of the Tenacious Women’s Writers Association of Tempe.