lost & found

M I S S I N G

Our daughter is
gone.
Flown away, I'd like to say,
but truth be told, she
left against
her wishes. At least, that's what I
like to tell
Magda so she won't
panic
over the awful, painful stress that justs
k
i
l
l
s
a mother when her child is torn
away
from her arms.

We've got a
reward,
the money that has been in our savings account
possibly for Mira's university, or wedding, or my
retirement plans. Plans we
had, for her, for us, now
destroyed, and ended in a blink
of an eye.
These disgusting, green bills make a
grand total
of a million dollars, and we're willing,
I suppose, I mean, what else
can we do?,
to give it to that lucky
bastard who gives us our daughter, our angel, our
Mira.

Mira, its means look, in some language,
Spanish, or Italian, or maybe even
Asshole, but that's
what it means, and so for her,
I'll look. And I think I
have
looked enough , 'cause I know now, after
looking,
that Mira's not lost but
found, and that maybe, just
perhaps, I know—'cause I've looked
—where she
is. And then, I guess,
I know that I
won't be getting her back.

I wonder if
God
will accept a reward of one
million dollars? Or if he likes it
in check? Or if he's stopped being
selfish, and is
willing to give a life
back.