the afternoon’s raping heat
comes at my body with the power of hot oil
and a med-evil priest
after the secrets of my spells
the force of life is sucked dry
and left lonely
like two sticks
making a cross
on the side of
a dusty turn
The last poem I am willing to publish from ye olde slush pile. There’s plenty more in there but the rest have been deemed unredeemable. I think I was 18 when I wrote this one. That was a brutal, miserable summer.
In New Mexico it is quite common to see little hand-made crosses on the side of the road. It’s a way of marking where someone lost a loved on to a fatal accident, frequently drunk driving is involved in those. Sometimes they are decorated with flowers, or worse, children’s toys.
I never really knew any real spells. Someday I’ll get around to the story of how God wasn’t home so I let myself in the back door.
Except that summer I was back in Colorado. Home.
In some ways that summer was a bit like this one. Liminal and unreal. Everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I’m 13 days from my first birthday. And I feel like I’m 18 again. In both the best and worst ways.