The noon sun peeks through cumulus clouds,

casting heat that burns onto a slide

in a children’s playground,
where the youngest of the neighborhood
continue to play, oblivious
to the poor woman resting unconscious,
laid face down on the side of the road.

Some days, death comes dressed in black,
where pallid hands grasp a rose,
an obituary speech.
Today, it comes dressed in a red pullover,
completely absent of exquisite eulogy,
just a speed limit sign that reads 25.

And here I stand, watching,
how strands of grass laced themselves into each nostril
of the woman, continuing their growth
despite her dormant lifelessness.
The few cars that have passed by
ignore the splatters of red,
while my numbing fingers reach into my back pocket,
preparing to dial 9-1-1.
What’s your emergency?

Most people say the discovery is the worst part,
though I’m not exactly sure who “most people” are,
or how they determined that just simply seeing it,
seeing her, was somehow worse
than the waiting. Stagnant,
for twenty minutes, lingering next to the decay
and crossed sneakers that fell, unprepared
for their final impressions on pavement,
makes me wish I had only discovered her.

Because while today death comes dressed in red,
tomorrow its garb may be my tank top,
the one with the lilies on it,
or the sweater that's one size too big.
Maybe, the skirt my mother bought me
that I'd always refused to wear.

It used to be only nighttime obscurity
that determined whether or not the outside was safe,
but daylight hours have dark days too,
now they can be just as vicious,
just as unsuspecting,
just as unforgiving.

So, while I stand next to someone's grandmother,
or their sister, perhaps their best friend…
My legs do not tremble at the sight
of her body, my face does not scrunch,
wincing at the almost dry blood on the side of her head,
but rather, selfishly, at the thought
that I have walked down the same road as her,
every day,
and it could have been me.