Summer 2

driving down I-85
lights off as long
as the sun grips
the sky
slowly accepting
her daily death
the wind whistles
through the car door
the radio hums
a tune that is
all the same
falls lake glistens
wild flowers wave

all this
and i haven't
taken a breath
in a week.

New Horizons

larry has a stab wound

healing on his stomach

he lifts up his shirt

to show me the gauze

stained red-brown

he tells me it looks worse

than it feels

jerryl has a friend

who was gunned down

last saturday night

on his front porch

dead on arrival

he has been carrying

a gun in his bookbag

since sunday

toya has a cigarette

hanging out of her

mouth every morning

before the door is unlocked

she is fifteen

and her belly grows

bigger every day

while the rest of her

wastes away

trey has a mother

who smokes crack

until she passes out

on the kitchen floor

he can't read

all he ever thinks about

is picking his mother

off of the kitchen floor

and taking the blackened pipe

from her knotted hand.

i am diagramming sentences

on the black board

ted smokes rock

subject verb object

bob bought a gun

subject verb object

sally sells drugs

subject verb object

i don't want to die

verb

in memoriam

david died this week. his wide grin that stretched across his face whenever anyone entered the room. his clumsy yet calculated dance moves if you happened to pass him the hallway. the neck hugs he gave away freely and wholeheartedly. all gone. i sat next to the altar watching the technicians bring his friends in to the church. his mother sat on the front row slowly wiping away tears from her face. behind the altar played a slideshow featuring david as a boy and then as a young man--the disease that claimed his life a shadow that fell over his face in those later pictures. he was only 23.

Summer

the heat seeps

out of the pavement

in long whisps

stealing the air

from my lungs

the city suffocates

and i shuffle

to the mailbox

kicking magnolia leaves

peering inside

for love letters

that never come

the tomatoes

at the farmer’s market

smell sour and earthy

but i’m still

rifling through

dirty clothes

trying to capture

what’s left of your

skin on my shirts

i sit on benches

drinking beer

sweat dripping

down the backs

of my thighs

desperate to remember

anything at all

the sun sets angry red

over the downtown skyline

the buildings are

ugly and fragmented

and i miss

the curve of your back

the construction site

where no one ever works

gapes like hades

in the humid night

i kick cones

and throw rocks

no one sees

me anymore

i can wonder

all night along

the railroad tracks

but it won’t make

the phone ring.

you and i

bloody knees
crawl concrete
rock specks
sparkle red
in the skin
this merry-go-round
turns again
you and i
do this dance
quite well
my friend
you standing
tall
me on the
ground
and no one
can tell
if you feel
anything
at all.

Elaine

your hands would shake

while you talked

as if they didn’t belong

to your body

moving on a will

of their own

you couldn’t get out of

bed for days

wrestling in the dark

avoiding the july sun

but the plants in the

living room were still

green and full

mocking you

in their stillness

the medicines never worked

just leaving you

anxious and bloated

leaving you turning

the pages of the bible

for relief that never came

i would stare

at my own raw hands

at the tearstains

on my shoes

my bloodshot eyes

and unwashed hair

wondering what

help i could possibly

give to you

that i didn’t require

myself

i tossed and turned

in the sheets

i sank and sweltered

in the covers

i breathed too fast

and moved too slow

my fingernails

disappeared again and

i wondered

how long before

my hands started

shaking like that.