Jessica said she was jumped by two men
down by McClures, they followed her down
Main Street and caught her in the alley way
behind the apartments, grabbed a fistful of her
long brown hair and pulled her to the ground--

I said you should have called me 'cause
I am two streets down from there, two minutes
walking or 30 seconds flat if I ran, and she smiles -
says I can do laundry at her new place because they're
fixin to get her a new dryer

asks me about that kid I was seeing and I tell her
he's not a thing anymore, ain't no thing
I leave out the part where I pray for him
every time I see his name pop up -- and it
does a lot.  Prayin' don't always mean good
things happen, no one ever said it did.

And we discuss other boys in light voices
yeah, I think I hurt him. and she doesn't
deny it, just sort of nods


yeah, I think i hurt them.

Two fishing poles, a feather,
a leather jacket with holes
on both elbows, forty-four
dollars and change in
an envelope, some dope,
a pair of worn out cowboy boots,
a clay flute shaped like a bird
that can't whistle a tune worth a lick,
an unused bus ticket, a picture
of two kids laughing pretending
to fly; an eyelash in my eye.

i'm doing that thing--
that thing where you only
remember the good things,
the good things are saving me
from the bad things which were
so few and far between, which in fact,
weren't many at all,

I was trying to distract myself, really
if it's a question of whether I could have
loved you regardless of our differences then
the answer is yes, yes, I can.  

but the proper analogy for what we had probably
looks something like two indians on opposite sides of
the river, or maybe you were in the middle, maybe I
was knee deep in the shore, toes between the stones
with an outstretched hand, maybe it wasn't a river,
maybe it was the rapids---was I yelling?

When I said I was done, what I really meant was, i'm done
hoping that you'll cross the river. Because you're pretty stubborn,
like you're on this rotating pedestal, and you pick up where you please
but I'm rooted, dug in, cemented to a lifestyle.


I dunno. I couldn't ask you to change.

I'm doing that thing--
that thing where I remember all the good things.
wondering if God has you or someone else,
it's funny how much I miss you.

Travis stands outside the grounds
with me and listens while I recount
the past two months, several times he
sighs and knocks his ball cap up, takes
a rough palm and wipes it down his face,
holding his jaw briefly,

he's smaller in frame, my height, makes eye contact
and holds it, takes you in when he speaks. He's been
treated pretty rough from what i hear but still keeps the
back porch open for visitors and I guess I am one--
twisting the cap on and off a tube of lip gloss, we
talk quietly about his brother who is in and out of
the swinging doors, there are so many men with
blue plaid shirts in here and I can hardly keep track--

and when we head for the Dome, I maneuver through the
old carousers and dark drunks who lurk in plain view, men who
murmur of course, hermosa when I gingerly place my hands
on their shoulders and inch past the doorway, I am searching for
you, for your blue sleeve,
but instead find Travis' and we dance a slow song--

I think he understands how I'm feeling, might be the lack of a poker face, we two-step and I trip over his boots, and when we're done he
kisses my shoulder lightly.

If I wasn't so affected by the warmheartedness I'd tell you I'd barely
noticed, but I am, when people are good, they are much softer. Their
intentions are palpable and tender--
and maybe I find comfort in touching people which i don't do too
often--and for a moment that was all i needed was a hint of
kindness after being handed off
from man to man, from feeling
intensely right with your arms
looped around my waist
with my fingers loosely settled
in your palm--to stranded with a memory
too many times where
you walked off and
i still had so much
more to say, like,
I truly love you,
maybe.

the boys will pick up sticks
down by the river bank and bury
themselves in swampy soil and inch
thick ***** mags from before they were
twinkles or considerations and their fathers
ignore their quick wits and charms--let their
curiousity coil around the garden stakes till
it chokes the tomatoes and lays itself across the
blushing rhubarb that mama worked so hard to
cultivate.

Papas, why didn't you chop down those trees or
tame the stinging nettle, the roof is riddled with
bullet holes and the rifle in the attic is still warm
still vibrating on the shelf, buried in moss, in
wisteria dropping in and growing up the sides--
she can make a man more beautiful but still hide a broken a home

you had a chance to guide your sons

you had a chance.

when the river ran
out i wrapped up
what i had left of
the plasma in my
veins and carried
it from city to city
from high hill to
deep valley until
i saw something
that looked like
you out on the far
end of a long field
and i waved to
you, said i'll  just
be  leaving  this
here and let the
sun eat me while
i walked away.

i remember we were dripping gold,
streaming from our fingertips,
and i thought this
must be what it feels like to be
free.