I walk toward the switch grass, sore. Always sore.
Too many family and friends names etched into
eternal granite. I think of Priscilla’s blazed hair. The way
she danced and lived until time fell from the bones.
We looked up at the midnight sky
from the floor of Jon’s bedroom after too many beers.
We talked about music: the notes falling off guitars,
and the banging of drums.
Underneath the ground your marrow must be
made of jewels. I can’t swallow thought; I remember
in fading photographs. You moved my hand onto your belly.
Let me know that you breathe, I did the same.
We were young then, the poems
showed themselves through the lives
we all lived. The moment: sturdy underneath
your long flowing Dead Head skirt. You rolled
over. We heathens in the stillness of dark,
breathing heavy with insignificant gods lost in
the second, the minute, the hour.
I remember it all. The eyes: a camera.
The mind: the film. The mouth: expressions of death.
The prairie grass blows. I walk past tormented screams
in the wind. Past long ago graves without headstones.
Each step my hiking stick kicks up divots of dirt.
Each one a tiny reminder. One day we’ll all be forgotten.