My Memory Begins with the Grass
No
sleep could be sweeter
than
the icy night I nestled
in a
strip of brittle grass, sick
drunk,
the sky too cold for snow.
My
spinning was the spinning
of the
galaxy, and who
could
say otherwise
as my
blood darkened, thickened
like
sludge? The cop knelt,
his
huge mitt on the loose zipper
of my
cloth coat. My ghost,
the
sober, sour half of me,
already
risen, all ready to be
wind
and shadow, leaned to his ear,
whispered,
let the boy go.
See how peaceful he is?
The
cop looked up to the frozen
indifferent clouds, down
to my
sodden blue face, paused
then
gave me one good shake.
Heaven of the Moment
Our
love would be enough as long as we
never
left the county by the highway north
to Montgomery and across the
bridge arched
over the
muddy Tombigbee. She
feared
falling, how the high arc might buckle
like
flimsy tin and our car tumble
to the
alligator roil in the swamp below.
My
problem was the sky. The span aimed us
to
whatever weather was there: plump,
lazy
thunderheads, hazy sunshine, heavy rain,
or
night and stars that seethed as we
came
closer. Gravity could forget to keep
our
tires tight to the road and the ramp
would
fling us into the heaven of the moment
where
she and I were sure to let go.