portion of the artwork for Arlene Ang's poems

Field Trip
Arlene Ang

The man under the bus was previously dead. We came to this conclusion when a crow started pecking out his knee. The jeans were torn, but his shoelaces appeared freshly tied. Miss Dorsey fumbled in her purse for a rosary. I didn’t kill him, the driver said—and that was how we knew they were sleeping together, how they planned everything at the farmerís market, behind the tomatoes. One student noted that portions of the man were moving inside the maggots. Don’t talk to my ex-husband like that, Miss Dorsey said. She recognized him by the sneakers he wore when he threatened never to come home. The smell of rot became his speech and, towards the end, we were all talking about it: It’s the fault of this goddamn weather. Does this mean we’re on a diet? Will this come out in the final exam? The driver just stood there. There was oil all over him and oil all over the dead man in the manner of really good excuses to start a war.



FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 27 | Law & Order Issue | Winter 2010