|Nebraska Center for Writers|
A crane shot
Iím the crane.
Iíve lost count
of the colored
Iím the dawn
or the movieís
just the one
at the end
trying to survive
the trend of
I see them,
in the porch globe, fallen bodies
to frosted glass
Did they swarm off stage?
A few degrees |
here or there
in the mattress
and over easy.
The night before,
After the storm
Always, when March tangoed with April, when ice wrestled rain, I assisted in killing winter so spring could be. The five blocks between home and
school my battlefield. The morning ice on the puddle faces, the glazed footprints from the night before, lost their thin lives to my boot heels.
Crack. Smash. You giggled and screamed, perched on high, as slush geysered up my pant legs.
Four years older than you. My job to protect your Sunday dress from Maís wild preserves: spearing the paraffin shield with a barbecue fork, taking the raspberry hit.
Too much Jack Danielís the night before your wedding. Our talk turned morose, to if worse ever came to worst. I dodged at first, pointing to my glass, quoted Ishmael: ďThis is my substitute for pistol and ball.Ē But you wouldnít let go. Pills, you said. Spineless girl, I said, kicking your folded legs.
Our paths so different. You following the rules, me waving my quixotic sword. But Iím the colossal fraud. A coward when you need me most. Your small life now at the mercy of a morphine pump. Living in six-minute intervals. Please? you ask. And I canít.
Their violet brown |
donít travel well
chest of drawers.
But like all such
It happens once a month or so, his cuff seizing mine.
Not always the same boy, but always a boy; not always
the same-sized hand, but always a brown one. Like mine.
This thief of palms is usually four or five years old, never
his head oscillating, his gaze mulling horizons
his wonder or scare him into running away. That
I take a gentler approach now; bend my head to his ear,
will meet mine; before the upside down question
That time |
put a little
A clear outcome
Only itís not
to chase the tail
before the ring