We were sitting
on her family's back porch,
sunk into the comfiest
couch this side of the
Mississippi, while her
mother sat in a chair adjacent.
She was smoking Newports
and telling me a story
about her godson.

Her godson lived in Anchorage,
worked on the Naval base there,
and his friend needed $4,000.
His friend killed her godson.

This is not something that
happens in real life, Lori explained.
This happens on the news,
or on cable TV, but you'd never
expect your kids, your godson,
you don't worry about things
like this happening, because they
don't. Not to us, anyway. Not
to us.

He did it with a hammer, and when he
was done, he cleaned the hammer
and put it back in the truck.

The afternoon sun was sinking,
the crisp golden light touching their
untouched lawn, grass growing five
feet high, an untended rose bush in the corner,
a tree in the other.

Did you know the rape and murder rate
for women is highest in the nation in Anch-
orage? Lori told me.

Oh but the comments on the news story
webpage were seeping, and Lori found the
killer's mom in adamant defense--

Lori pointed out the killer's involvement with
a dog fighting rink when he was 15,
charged with felony. And they let the dude
into the armed services.

Hey, life happens. But death, it doesn't. Not
to us.