Tonight, we will find each other again
at the way station of turning time.
The door will flutter and I will see him there,
sitting alone at the bar, wearing a crown
of shotgun shells, his chest an open cage.
I heard his wife found out my name.
She’ll get off without any time.
Loose dirt covers his graves, somewhere unmarked,
miles away from his family
plot. Family is a thin commitment where
shame is a sharp scalpel.
He will pay the tab like he paid
for the summer we first met, fingers still delicate
holding a pen. The inky black curves will whisper
his name and remind me he is a gentle campfire
the world gathers around. I could scream
at this, his sameness amidst his brokenness. Tender
hands bruised and blackened.
And when his eyes register me I will ask him
to not look down at the drink pouring out
of my abdomen. The canyon of his loss
taught me withdrawal and whiskey. He will not
see the same man from our tent, from our nights.
Even more, I’ve changed in so many ways
that I will not have the strength to say.
Lifetimes are spent embarrassed by skin
that is transparent with mistakes and memories,
just wanting him to see me like I
was and not as I am. But he is him.
I will walk inside, into arms
that hold me together anyway.
