Poetry

There was no sun
that far back, where a man
told his wife her name was
cooled wax;
hard to speak, hard to shake
loose from his bones. Only filaments buzzed
with a light not meant for that

time of year. The waitress told me
I reminded her of someone famous,
she just couldn't remember who. I remember
thinking why couldn't I have been
a reminder of someone ordinary,
like a truck driver from Pittsburgh
who'd lost two fingers to a ban saw
and knew it would be difficult, now,
to shoot anyone. But I only mention
these things

to get to the girl
who sat next to me, whose fingers
found virgin nerves in my leg,
while her eyes, colored oxygen,
autopsied the night.
But it was later,

after we had given each wave
a name so we might know
the thorns of parenthood
when they failed
at our feet. Later, when her shadow
rubbed me in a way
only sparrows and the sons
of blind men could see. Later, when
her feet carved a monolith
across the floor, and the rain
was planetary. It was only after
she said, "there's someone in Puerto Rico,"
when I couldn't sleep
because he was there

between us.