Yakima, 2019
We spread buckshot across the coldest feet
and weakest knees and once upon a time
defined again the loop of blood: the weight
a heart can spit and sputter. Valves of veins
in frozen lakes, we thought, were roads too thin
to walk but white and endless. Fools attempt
such ice in prayer, but lovers rarely drown
with grace. I’m sick of men who fall in love
with me. In caves, I’ll dawdle. Maybe kiss
behind some fangs of water stopped. Mid-fall,
even time forgets time. What doesn’t want
to rest. I’m numb now, shooting down the stars
with forked twigs, polishing femurs of tired
light during smoke breaks. In the day, I swing
the visor side to front and blot the sun
in place—refuse the thaw its seed, the nest
its egg. To hell with lists. From caves, I’ve fled
but cold I’ve kept and shifted gears. From third
to fourth alone. So what. The moon is rot
without the sun, and stars are dead. Nothing
new about it. Give me just a decade
to riddle this out. Meet me when the sun
and moon align again, when I’m ready
to pretend we’re more than passing shadows.
Dad and I Talk E-Cigs*
So then: what will I put in my breast pocket,
what will become of Zippos the world round?
There’s sex appeal in smoking, in the perfect
table smack, the firefly, the flick and spinout.
You want me to suck air from a ballpoint pen.
Hell, even at 60, a man’s gotta have bounds.
I wear the glasses, the dentures, the seatbelt
and drive 25 miles per hour all over town.
If a man wants to have a Pabst and a smoke,
I don’t see a problem. Some CCR on the radio,
a steak on the grill, beans and a baked potato.
I’m just watchin’ those big ole ore ships roll
by from this picnic table (and he angles his chin
toward water receding, toward a red light’s tick).
