I think if I were born in that
field we drove our trucks through,
just inside the border of Vermont.
My father would raise chickens
and with nowhere else to go
kill them to feed his children.

My older brother, born again in a green winter,
behind the wheel, my thirteenth year.
Would come back to cut the grass,
wade in our river, just a baid-aid on his elbow.

My mother would not hide her wine
in the closet. Onions would hang
in baskets. Not in crumbs
in a drawer.

I would wear a hammer like a second soul.
Up at 4 o'clock, brown skin bathing
in thick suds of fog.

But we are here, and it's 2am. I see you stare at my hollow mouth.

Owing you a blushing cheek,
a clouded whiskey grin.

I wear a moon engraved ring
not for your attention.
Though you sit below the clock,
beside the one-fifty-one.

If you're going to stare at me
with such intent,
I'll need to dress you up.
In a fishing hat, cream of wheat,
cup of sugar, water boiling.
I'll need to pour your coffee
in the morning.

07/27/2005

Posted on 08/01/2005
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