wedded that day, on their way
to El Paso, for two nights in a grand motel
with TV, and AC
they would splurge,
for profligacy was not a sin at such times
and a fat steer was sacrificed for it
the radio filled the cab
of the pickup with Tammy "Why-not"
singing D-I-V-O-R-C-E
they sang along, changing the letters
to M-A-R-R-I-E-D, creating one cheerful
cacophony in their shared space
when the next tune started, he hit:
a greasy buzzard, wingspan wide as a fence post was tall
black as an oil slick
the old windshield was no match
for the vulture, and it was a vengeful one
that crashed through Ronny's side
glass, bone, feather and flesh
tore into his sweet face like a chainsaw
his blood blinding him
Ronny turned so hard on that wheel
the truck rolled, twice, landing them on
the passenger side in an arroyo
where he lay on top of her,
gasping, his blood dripping generously on her
"Ronny, Ronny..."
her legs were numb, and she felt a warm
liquid crawling down her back, one she knew
was from her own head
which smacked the roof
so hard she was surprised her skull
hadn't popped
or maybe it had, for she saw double:
two steering wheels; two setting suns; two mangled birds
and two crimson faced Ronny's
who then had stopped gasping, and only
slow breaths came from him, like a warm whisper
on her cheeks--but only until the song ended
and she knew, he was gone--and old verse
came to her, from Psalms, from Matthew, and she knew,
she was sure, someone would find them
and make her whole, and resurrect Ronny
for the good Lord would not do this to them, on this
hopeful highway, before they consummated
she harbored such a notion until
her own eyes closed, and other dark birds came
to find them, still, under her God's closed eye
(1968, north of Marfa, Texas)
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
wedded that day, on their way
to El Paso, for two nights in a grand motel
with TV, and AC
they would splurge,
for profligacy was not a sin at such times
and a fat steer was sacrificed for it
the radio filled the cab
of the pickup with Tammy "Why-not"
singing D-I-V-O-R-C-E
they sang along, changing the letters
to M-A-R-R-I-E-D, creating one cheerful
cacophony in their shared space
when the next tune started, he hit:
a greasy buzzard, wingspan wide as a fence post was tall
black as an oil slick
the old windshield was no match
for the vulture, and it was a vengeful one
that crashed through Ronny's side
glass, bone, feather and flesh
tore into his sweet face like a chainsaw
his blood blinding him
Ronny turned so hard on that wheel
the truck rolled, twice, landing them on
the passenger side in an arroyo
where he lay on top of her,
gasping, his blood dripping generously on her
"Ronny, Ronny..."
her legs were numb, and she felt a warm
liquid crawling down her back, one she knew
was from her own head
which smacked the roof
so hard she was surprised her skull
hadn't popped
or maybe it had, for she saw double:
two steering wheels; two setting suns; two mangled birds
and two crimson faced Ronny's
who then had stopped gasping, and only
slow breaths came from him, like a warm whisper
on her cheeks--but only until the song ended
and she knew, he was gone--and old verse
came to her, from Psalms, from Matthew, and she knew,
she was sure, someone would find them
and make her whole, and resurrect Ronny
for the good Lord would not do this to them, on this
hopeful highway, before they consummated
she harbored such a notion until
her own eyes closed, and other dark birds came
to find them, still, under her God's closed eye
(1968, north of Marfa, Texas)
The title is an allusion to a verse (from Matthew?) about not one bird falling without God knowing. In the early 70s, I had a landlord whose daughter's face was mangled by a buzzard that crashed through her truck windshield.
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