April 6th: Specificity

 Summer of 1967: Expelled Indefinitely

Daniel came home draped in flannel,

a cigarette filter tucked behind his ear.

You watch him from the porch––

let the wind chime drown his voice.

Remember the way weight molded

your bodies into the grass fields, 

only to be blown back into the current of winds.

In the Ford, octopus vines grab rust.

You still smell the tattered skin bench,

the warm tang of beer on his breath.

“You’re the one,” you recall in your ear.

He never will let you drive the truck

without wheels. You, the passenger,

were the oil and he the vinegar that rushed,

rushed through––settled low in your gut.

Rough hands brace against the fence post,

brown dirt under his finger nails.

A mocking bird sings behind his left ear,

like the girl in his car, fiddling with his radio.

She is you, three years ago––captivated.

The screen door clacks behind you,

and you welcome the scent of apple pie,

relishing in the knowledge that

soon, he will teach her how to fall.





Also, COPYRIGHT 2011