The rain was black snake oil on the grass.
Look at the road catch slowly and stretch far!
Still, the luck blood in my truck screamed, “Go FAST!”
And left a burnout mark on the blacktop.
I was birthed out of the cab on wet stones
And crawled northwest thinking I was still whole.
You left me then, piecing the map alone,
Licking its edges and smoothing its folds.
Seven miles! I walked the soy blister fields.
Lone bones shivered free from slackened skin-
Which flip flopped to the earth and congealed.
(You found it later and sewed moccasins)
Reaching our childhood farmhouse I died.
A plastic shovel dug my cemetery.
Here in our flooded sandbox I abide,
Waiting for your pail mouth to bury me.
(For mi Hermano grande)
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