- Fatal April
The phone rang. It was Doris, Your sister, calling to say April had taken you, where, In your bedroom, when, days ago, How, murder, no, a stroke.
You left a car (but I Don’t drive) and enough cash In your pockets to buy A one-way train ticket From Boston to Washington.
Let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t take the money, but I did take your Driver’s License And the Chuck Brown album, Needle to groove,
Round and round, Where they found you. Both were metaphors. The license I promised, but knew I’d never get—now I have yours
And the album because Of what you may have been Trying to say about writing, About home. James keeps Asking me to visit your grave,
When will I learn to drive And why I changed my name.
He’s your son, stubborn with An inherited temper. I keep telling him No, never, there’s more than
One way to bury a man.
Works by Thomas Sayers Ellis
• Tambourine Tommy
• Fatal April
• The Market
• A PSYCHOALPHADISCOBETABIOAQUADOLOOP
Thomas Sayers Ellis is studying for the M.F.A. degree in creative writing at Brown University. His work has appeared in a number of periodicals, including Agni, The Kenyon Review, Southern Review, The Harvard Review, and Ploughshares. He is a co-founding member of the Dark Room Writers Collective and co-editor of On the Verge: Emerging Poets and Artists, an anthology.