They found her body in a duffel bag
just minutes after and a mile from the concerts.
News spread fast of music and murder,
hushed whispers among an audience waiting
for the news outlets that raced against mystery.
Faces hung shocked of something so gruesome
just paces away from a melodious night.
We tried to bury the fear that
this could have been any of us.
One night later came the media’s encore.
The body in the duffel bag belonged to a homeless woman,
the brain in the body plagued by hysteria.
Their cameras shot at the mother,
languishing through a choked-up throat about
how beautiful that face was.
All of the journalism, paraphrasing and plagiarizing
the same notes on a transient in the streets, disheveled
in presentation and psyche.
They all shared the same picture of scarecrow hair frazzled atop
empty white eyes.
No arrests had been made,
the encore concluded.
The days went on as if
they never found her body in a duffel bag.
That was all we needed to crush fear into fantasy
because something like that
could never happen to someone like us.
We had such a good time at the music festival.