Celeste

in the evening my city
breathed with small children
and people sipping a glass of wine
at late-September tables
and uncontainable girls
he was twenty and she twelve
he sang to her this song, Celeste
the sweetest, the most beautiful
what eyes they carried
it was wonderful to be alive
but it won’t be so different
to be dead with all this pain
she was pregnant
he had killed her
torn her apart
left her dying
in the trunk of a new car
in a parking lot
only the torso and the head
the fetus instead
buried in the garden
behind the house