Haunted Curves

Sometimes, you’ll be reading merrily
On, as you are now, as is your wont,
Taking it all in seriously

But calmly, enjoying words on trust,
Only to be brought up short or thrown
Completely off by the appearance

Of some offensive term of abuse,
Sprawled like old roadkill on the smooth curve
Of your own or someone else’s words,

And suddenly the world stinks of corpse.
You don’t want to read on anymore,
Not even your favorite author,

Not even your own earlier self,
A writer you normally indulge.
How could they or you have written this?

Here’s the word, gypsy, in your own verse.
Here’s the off-hand, objectifying
Term, mulatto, among someone’s lines

Re mountains, maps, suburbs, and bird tracks.
Small but grim remnants from the gory,
Grisly histories of quiet roads,

Like those crosses with fading garlands
Of false flowers placed in memory
Of the tragic drunks who crashed right there

Miscalculating capacity,
Or in memory of their victims.
Sometimes who appears was your victim.