Sacrifices

Sacrifices


It was at the fishing hole a worm
squeezed my knuckle. It was September,
I was 6 and toeheaded. The leaves in the trees

turned red and shook at the concrete sky.
Fully aware of the life wriggling
around my finger—if I am honest, I will tell you I sobbed

lightly when I pinched it in half,
threaded the hook through its wormy body.
And as if in an act of bitter defiance,

I flung the line with vigor.
My bobber rippled the water's surface,
a fluorescent twig in the mucky pondwater.

I had not yet learned of twelve-bar blues,
gasoline, an empty tummy. I only knew two things:
my bike and my fishing pole.

But I only knew with training wheels.
I only knew to yank and reel
when the bobber plopped down beneath the water.

And when I cranked up that shimmering silver fish
out of the pond it sent tiny quakes
into my pale wobbly thin arms. I could only look at it,

the red flesh under its gills, shock
filling its gaping body. I lowered it to the dirt,
watching it flail and pad against the earth.

My teeth clenched tight. If I am honest,
I will tell you I knew it was dying
in all this air. I waited for it to settle down,

afraid of its stark fight for life, and as it began to rest,
I looked down on the fish, its mouth moving
like it searched for words that could never

be spoken. I imagined the frequencies humming
around in my blonde head. And then there was quiet.
I whipped my fishing pole and freed the lure

from the cheek. The lure flew above and behind me,
got caught in the hair of our willow tree. I struggled with it,
but the willow was persistent, so I laid the pole at her feet,

picked up the still, oily fish and flung
it into the water, watching silently
from the grass for it to come alive.

Today

I drank half a gallon of sweet tea. I looked out my blurry window at the concrete sky. I tried to sing but my throat merely shuddered. My harmonica took my breath away. I looked for a pen and found none. I got lost in my own hallway. I segregated my confidences from my uncertainties. No longer will they mingle. I read lamentations. I missed that soft and bruised little heart.

More to come, later.

http://myspace.com/theroostercrow
That's some music of mine.

I'm leaving the house now to see the beautiful Michelle and leave my filthy dreams behind in my bedsheets.

Doe Bones

Doe bones,
how you budge in your sleep,

your anxious ghosts
stirring in your mind,

your tendons constrict and release,
sudden, small flinching.

And you sigh, a pinkish moan,
as if a horsehair drawn

across your throat.
In tender dark, streaks

of halogen laying
across the blankets,

I will pull you tighter,
twin stars orbiting,

and creak a tale in your ear.
Let the words cascade and blur

into whatever machine
makes sleep—may your quick breath

soften and as I whisper
through these clouds

of your jasmine hair,
may the casual

movements of our bodies become
the melody of your dreams.