The chainsaw complained loudly
gave an abrupt silencing snap
lashing back
-blink- a casual blur
lopping off the hand of the city worker.
She stopped smoothing the tanning oil
into her slick chest
sat up
but the birds babbled on
and the sun still streamed slanted
through the leafy canopy of the yard
now nearly maliciously cheery
as the worker doubled over
grasping about the soil
one hand after the other
strangely silent and composed
after the first little yelp of alarm.

Later too, such heedlessness in things.
The way the world did not give a shudder
when the phone rang that night, her mother
weeping and saying that finally
her father had left them for good,
and through the gasping sobs on both ends of the phone
"Try to pass your exams, dear."

And then the bright hungover morning
the boy she'd just met
sauntering smugly triumphant
to his washroom
saying only, "Your residence is that way."
And all the dull pain of things washing in her head
banished home like a shamed child in her bar clothes.

And it was then that she began to hate
the sun-polished morning
and the panting glee of the children
and the bloom everywhere
that never even thought to pause.