I.

you took my wounds to church with you.
you are not the

he
she
it
i

fell in love with
met in aisle 9
encountered briefly while merging onto I-75
braced against in dec. when sidewalks were slushy, bags heavy
fattened with monthly checks to unicef
scratched poems to while parked in a dimly lit corner marathon lot
spread my hips for

let break me.

you are a head banging
neck against concrete
bones against asphalt
1987 memory
fuzzy in afterthought, blurred but
still moving in the spaces
i supposed were vacant.

you are dangling my bandages between two hands
holding breast against bone
& beaming.


II.


apparitions in th night.  bodies strung like scarecrows.  chain-link fence.  you.  a secret.  last night in the darkness you were such a grown up version of broken little girl.  deep swigging your old brand no. 7 convictions.  wrist biting, bloodletting & letting go.  the ruby in my hip pocket, the tiny shard of what's to come has dulled.  remote memory.  grandma's hands.  kneading weakness.  the forgotten art of pulling sadness from skin.  here in our confusion, anxiety swarming like wet bees,  we remember how to swat.  with prowess.  faith healing.  when there is no faith & many wounds.


III.


to be brave you said is to pen what isn't beautiful, but real.

green highway lights.
frothy buds.

this static is not the end of me.  does not make me
want to consume massive amounts of your paxil
in the backseat, during traffic, under asphalt, infants screaming
while approaching red lights, smoke signals
that may or may not signify some sudden


stop.


this is not what i wanted.  :

1987--broken, stringy, orphaned.
2002--still reaching for a man

in an emergency when flames consume oxygen
& fire begins to feed.  smoke everywhere.  in mouth.  in nose
climbing. climbing. curling. licking.

burning girl looking for her father's hand
her father's hand.

this is the sound of a burning girl
reaching for her father's hand.

validation.
preservation.


IV.


3 AM
coyote on the ridge.
trying to decide if the body is warm.
if there is time to coo the undead
before eyes turn icy & blood stills.

remembering my grandma.
how her hands pressed sickness
from a belly, leg, head, throat.

how she taught me to deliver
eulogies for the broken
in poem or song

and said:

it's okay.  it's alright.  divine.
heal yourself

even when you are
blistered
burning
beaten

underneath some highway dream.