around the time Hurricane Matthew was
tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in
Divide--
A Coors bottle pressed into your beard,
settled on your bottom lip in contemplation
a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke
softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys,
Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through
real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer
trees and La Llorona
But I was deeply introspective,
heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song
how earlier that morning your fingers
had found their way around my hips--
mine around your waistband, down your spine
a helpless explorer driven across the mainland
transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains
around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry
how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me
out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold
yes. probably.
and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps
dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because
when in doubt, race yourself.
Sheltered by the truck gate,
you've come up ahead and stand
in front of me, unassuming
both hands complacent--
so I ask you to kiss me
and there's a fiddle playin'
in my ears, a highway of
country streamin' through
my veins, or,
something
like that.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
around the time Hurricane Matthew was happening,
You were, too.