Waxing/Waning

My heart skipped a beat. I thought i was getting subpoenaed. Luckily the letter was just a reminder of how alone dependence can make you. My feet disappear as I run sockless toward the bus. Can never remember to remind myself to not forget the smaller details. You were yelling at me for a long half minute before I decided to hear you. Feeling less adult for getting humiliated in public. Time to inhale or exhale? Soldiering from too many tasks and all I can do is play and repeat those slow seconds.

 

Small Talk

She has told me this story three times now
but I’m too polite to remind her

Her forgetfulness is an endearing eccentricity
that is undoubtedly annoying if you know her well

part of her brain is missing
the part that tells her body to retain water
to correct this problem she snorts a hormone derived from rats

and sometimes she forgets to snort her rat hormone and will sit there on the porch
chugging a gallon of water, sometimes two.

Memories of the Un-aging Dead

You would strike the grain bucket with a feigned anger. Daring each other we would cling to the metal fence. Its vibrations numbing our grip as the sound of rolling boulders flooded toward us. Disguised by the night until the glow from the barn exposed the herd of  horses. I couldn’t help but let go and fall back in the dirt, terrified of these living monuments.

Those ochre days bound us to our landscape as we explored our maiden season.The early morning rains would pock the river, disrupting the ambiance below. Stirring up the clay and making the river look like a dust storm on an alien planet, concealing the Bream and Catfish, restoring their mystery.  We would sit there in a trance, allowing the rain to saturate us, blending us into the earth.

There were four of us then, wallowing in the sand of our ephemeral pleasures. Awakening the spirits that come alive when pure souls trespass through the density of heritage.

I’ve revisited this forgotten landscape and found hoof prints cemented in your driveway, because you left the gate unlocked. The last time your mother got angry at you. Crescent moon canyons that collected the rain water. The horses are all gone. Last winter her legs stiffened from tetanus and she suffocated from the collapse. Your father lost the battle trying to save the foal she was carrying. He blamed himself for letting your horse die. The others were auctioned off.  Now the air smells tainted and unfamiliar, making me homesick for another time and the Missouri fog still sings your name like a folk song.