The town was not a cradle.The town wasn't bent on love.My cousin and I ran beneaththe willows by the lakeuntil her sister called us home.The town churned blamelong before my cousin sleptwith men, long before she workedin the hospital where I was born,long before her regularsin the ER, the indigent,lined up at her funeralto look for herin her brother's face,to kiss her folded hands,to leave their handlers,to carry plastic bags of cansat their wrists,to bang their heads against her coffin,to touch the flowers,to not touch, to wanderin the back, afraid to takeup space. My cousin stayed.I left. The lake had a bottomthey never found.Irene, Goodnight.He banged his head on the coffinand cried for the nursethat said his name.While walking from the stationa stranger overheardher words: Don't do it.Again. Don't do it.Don't do it. Don't do it.Strangers in the deli said,Well, that's what happens when.She worked in the ERemptying bedpans,drawing blood.The willows by the lakehad narrow silver leavesand the gun was dull.Her colleagues workedto save her.They had to wait to cry.She didn't die right away,but he did. It was Sunday morning.People were in the streetbuying newspapers,buying milk.Don't to the man who threwher against the wallwho threw her to the ground.Goodnight.I'll see you in my dreams.We looked at herin photos on a board.She was a child and her father said,Put up the photoswhen she was a womanin pale blue scrubs, armsaround her sons and daughter,blanket under the wall of branches,grass in their sand bucketrepeating Don't Don't. Not his.Irene, goodnight.One time in Salvation Armythe clerk searched mefor a necklace.I was innocent.The clerk lifted my skirt,my shirt. Irene wasn't born yet.The town was constant.I couldn't speak up.Love songs played whatwe thought was justice.