Poetry

It was the summer an IU student had disappeared
off the sidewalk and been sucked into the night air
of our town. Before leaving for college ourselves,
we beached Camille’s pontoon boat one last time
on Lake Monroe. We hurried down the sandstone
until our chipped crimson toenails teased the water—
that black lapping edge where we shed our clothes
and waded in until our limbs floated up,

by yes I mean maybe perhaps possibly could be

at some future time to be determined—

who knows—by me

after the runes of bills with gibberish in six-point type safely shredded

spam messages from Mumbai, Shanghai, Lorelei threatening

prison or promising a f*ck buddy, all deleted

They’re meant for aspens and dense brush,
idle fields gone tall with weeds, then the gun
and tables laden with cakes and silver goblets

You, leaping from the limestone bluffs of Pueblo Reservoir,

are suspended a moment

with the pelicans, white K-Swiss laces fluttering, red life vest

Mrs. Lucia Rainbow grows the neighborhood’s best begonias for sport.

Bucket at her feet,       spritzer bottle in hand.             Crickets float

across the bucket crest on a cupped leaf, one upright, the other stooped,

As in this conflation of sound causes a parallel of death.
As in the body flattens on concrete. As in the body roasts on tar.
Calves ache from the stillness. The tongue swells, overfilling the mouth.

This is a box step, forward and backward.
Glancing at the appearing town you take a night rush of january air
though it might never be the same

In the woods behind our first house, that picketless patch
of silence where we buried a precious yipper named Pinka,
seven years of christmas trees laid to RIP in the grip of kudzu