Echoes first quiet, a pitch that hounds can barely hear.

Gently coaxing her. "Come now, no one has to know, just give in dear."


Blues and reds spinning. Sirens scream.

 So much better and yet so much worse.



Trying to beg. But no, they're tuned out.

I don't know any other route,
I still can't tell, no voice to shout.


They're all deaf! Please God, open just one ear.

I never got to know who I would really be.

The day was pure, I went to play and lift me brown-eyed brave;
I never got to know who I would really be.

My cousin was not home, but his father was,
who offered to show curious me something;
I never got to know who I would really be.

Taking my hand, up we went into that shadowed bedroom;
I never got to know who I would really be.

There I cried and nearly died as breath and trust drained away,
and then he finished;
I never got to know who I would really be.

With all my four-year might, I barely stood,
trembling friendless for a lifetime,
waiting and wishing for the end of me that never came,
frozen by the echoes of his whistling;
I never got to know who I would really be.

My light and trust twisted numb, and I became,
in that sacrificial horror, unwantedly wise;
I never got to know who I would really be.

My nature heart and caring head left for other worlds,
replaced by unwanted imitations,
strange deliveries from the unknown;
I never got to know who I would really be.

The rest of my life unfolded in starker silence,
hidden tears, and lurking fears, later liberated
for short, surprised, and sublime times
by the fairest love of two women,
safe children, their adoring little ones,
and a few determined adventures now and then,
hinting of the lost;
I never got to know who I would really be.

But now I write it all, and from my defiant and disobedient depth
consider, when I can, what imagining did for me
and never came true,
to stand and say and show
who I have become anyway.

This is my private anthem to my beloved self,
though
I never got to know
who that boy might really be.

More than one person remembers that day
as hot and tasting of catastrophe
in the flavor of airbag dust and gasoline.
We were talking as you drank your root beer.
Windows down. My shoes off…

4:02.
Your eyes widen
as metal screeches and the revving of engines
winds down, a man wearing sunglasses
yanks on my door, but it protrudes
into the cab. Another man takes you out —
shouts to me to move.  I can’t
find my shoes and my wallet is soaked.
Bystanders flock like they would at a circus
where a lion’s attacked his tamer.
Tears flow more freely than blood.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God, my fault spills
from my bruised lips until finally,
I collapse to the pavement like the fender
of the opposing Mercedes.  

I tried but failed to explain
that swerving the car to save you
meant near-death for me. Only after
regret and responsibility that crushed
my lungs faded, the way mascara dries,
did I acknowledge,
I am here.

Today
for the first time
I felt my own mortality.
Before, I went through life
deliberately ignoring death and its couriers
absently aware but blind
to the dangers of life.

Today
I realized that life
is nothing but a quest
to escape death
neverending, never ending
until that day
when everything stops.

Before today
I never had to evaluate my life
in a split second
but today I had to remember anything and decide
(not like I had a choice)
if I was ready or not.
Twelve more inches and
who knows what I would be
saying now.