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Noon
He will put on the vest at noon.
But first, he will walk his sister to school
and buy bread for the house at the market.
She waits on a stool in the kitchen.
She is young―no breasts to speak of yet.
She salts her egg, drinks a cup of milk.
It is only eleven fifteen. Still plenty of time.
They walk side by side in the cool breath of morning—
a used book in her hand, ballet slippers and
the unused vest in his.
The vest is not heavy; maybe the weight
of a couple of stones or a soccer ball.
The school is not far, a school for girls
facing the sea, with religious women who teach.
His sister busses his clean shaven cheeks,
turns away, goes inside. Her eyes are blue.
Now, it is eleven twenty three.
He stands in line beneath an incandescent
light at the bakery. He tears a warm chunk
from the loaf and inhales the aroma,
breathing it in again, again, his senses
swelling with butter and yeast and wheat,
but he does not eat it. They said not to eat.
His father had loved bread with jam.
His mother is dead.
His sister has blue eyes.
The time is now eleven forty.
Men have gathered in the street.
Some are talking. Some are laughing.
There are those teenagers, wearing t-shirts
and jeans, clapping to a radio, sitting at tables
playing cards. They go in and out of the café
for mugs of coffee. A one-armed man with
a full white beard nods, smiles, goes inside.
It is eleven forty seven.
He is not afraid of the vest.
He has a higher purpose.
He is fortunate to be chosen.
The reward is great
and will soon be his.
He deserves this.
There is nothing else.
Eleven fifty and twenty five seconds.
He looks at the vest. It is made of good cloth,
the color of mustard. An important zipper is
sewn down the front and generous pockets are
stitched inside to hold bombs
made of plastic explosives and wire.
There is also a bright red button.
Eleven fifty eight. Almost time.
He lets go of the bread and puts on the vest.
Zips it up, shrugs his shoulders, puts his hands
in the pockets. The vest feels comfortable,
soft like old skin. It smells of sewing machine oil.
Gingerly, he fingers the smooth face of the button.
No, not yet. Still too soon.
Around him, the café and street bustle and flow.
And that one-armed man over there,
the one with the beard, pedals away
on a rusty bicycle. Good for him.
Another one, wearing a green jacket,
dumbly buys flowers for a wife or lover.
The time is eleven fifty nine and twenty two seconds.
There is a group of them standing, smoking cigarettes.
He tells the fat-bald one about his sister,
whose eyes are blue as heaven.
So are yours, the fat-bald one replies, blowing
smoke from his mouth in rings. So are yours.
Finally, it is noon.
He is not unhappy or unloved.
He does not live in squalor, or out on the streets.
Too bad that bus pulls over, stopping at the curb,
letting those people get off.
The day already smells of autumn.
Yes, it is time. The time is now.
He presses the red button once, twice.
And the bomb in his vest,
it goes off.
BIO: Bonnie Bolling lives in Long Beach with her family. She is a student of the creative writing program at Long Beach City College, where she enjoys status as an office regular. One of her poems was a finalist for the 2007 Rita Dove Poetry Award and she was a recipient of two Donald Drury Awards. Her work has been published in Pearl Magazine, Chickasaw Plum, Verdad, Poetic Diversity, Apple Valley Review, Rattle and other magazines and newspapers. Her current projects are a novel titled The Book of Ruth, and a collection of poetry. When she isn’t writing poems or re-writing her novel, she enjoys conversations with her sons, sipping wine and window shopping with her sisters.
