You where there last night in a dream
laying down in a bed
made out of moonlight and stardust
and your lips painted the warm colors
of hope in the empty space below my ribs
and whispers murmured
from the faint beat of something alive
inside of something I thought was dead

you kept your name a secret
and stole mine
and gave it away to a bird

with black feathers

and black eyes

and a black beak

and it chewed and swallowed
every letter and every syllable
and I became a nameless prayer
on the tip of your tongue
and a helpless beggar
and fool on my knees
and you wrapped around me
like a snake squeezing the last breath
out of its next meal

your skin was a blanket
made out of the soft heat of the sun
and it covered and held together
all the broken and lost pieces
of all the things I had forgotten
use to be part of me

and your heart filled all the emptiness
that I had been carrying in my blood
and your eyes where painted
fields of flowers and flames
and you sang a song that had no words
that told all of the truths
of what it was to find and know love

Hilda died before her time—
just before
her honeymoon—
she’d spent it all,
every dime
she’d made in tips
on afternoons.

she wore her mother’s wedding dress—
dated lace,
a size too small—
but beautiful
nonetheless,
and full of grace,
she read her vows.

she hid her bruises with a sleeve—
finger marks
(his grip was strong)—
she promised him
she’d never leave;
(the little things
we keep in songs).  

he killed her with a forty-five—
had it hid
below the bed—
so what’s it mean
to be alive?
the only ones who know
are dead.

All of these words
formed without breath
is magic against death
and all of this ends
with to be continued
I wave so long
with a handkerchief
to the horses on the range
of my dreams
and every scene is sculptured
from wood with splintered
fingers ruptured
with the blood of my brothers.

My father and I
lie down together.

He is dead.

We look up at the stars,
the steady sound
of the wind turning
the night like a ceiling fan.

This is our home.

I remember the work in him
like bitterness in persimmons
before the first frost,
and I imagine the way he feared
the pain, the ground turning
dark in the rain.

Now he gets up
and I dream he looks down
into my brown eyes
that may as well been his.

He weeps and says goodbye,
my son, I don't want to
go yet, but I can't wait
around to watch you die.