Dead little Emily, The Wrong March

Poem by Marc Aupiais

When she died it was,
At a young age,
Papers rage.

They handed out ribbons, pink ribbons,
For a girl I'd never met.

I prayed to her, after all she was dead.
Little did I know the reply I'd get.

Little Emily was quite upset.
Shot by carjacking.
A victim-less crime.

The school wanted a march.
Her picture full,
The death penalty.

They invited media to her funeral,
Martyr was she.
Against the wishes of her parents,
Who'd have moved her to St. Mary's.

So I prayed to her,
And got a sense.

I was not to march.
It was not her march.

I objected.
Junior school library.
Only me and some with
doctors appointees.

A long boring wait,
And then home.

I kept the pink ribbon.
And forgot Emily.

And yet, Today, my love.
Too ill. I staid quite home.

And fell asleep.

And in my dream I saw a girl,
Quite dead. Sitting in the library, quite stared.
Brown eyes, brown hair,
Was she a crush of past said?

I asked her who she was.
She, I asked: blood eye,
Why I erased her from my memory of the past.

Chelsea she said.
But no Chelsea I know is dead.

And she kicked my spine with her knee,
And made me pray,
On my knees.

I wishdrew quite scared.
Sitting among the desks,
Where I once blankly stare.

But I return to little Chelsea,
She makes me pray.

I wonder if she's evil.
She makes me say.
I pray. And she is upset she says.

What is it Chelsea?
You pray. Incorrectly.
You pray quite wrong.
For what's wrong.
Pray again.

I pray. Changing my request.

And I awake quite scared.
My cat perhaps kneading
-the duvet on my bed.

Wondering if I know a Chelsea,
And I remember Emily.
Dead Emily.
Superstitious,
It does not make me less,
Scared.