WEBVTT

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So now I'm going
to dig through this

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and try to find a poem
that isn't about my mother.

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My God, why is it so hard?

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OK, here's one.

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In a field, three
boys drunk laid down

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in a flatbed of a truck,
where one falls asleep

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and one, the same one, three
years from the starless night

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will find himself on
his knees, licking

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the folds of a
strange man's wallet,

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and one, a different
one, will be

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found in an abandoned
house shaking,

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fleas running up
and down his body,

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and the third will wait trial
for the murder of his father.

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However, these stories
haven't happened.

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Tonight we are safe from the
shrinking wicks of our fates.

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Together for what I assume is
the last time among the stocks,

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when one, you can
guess which, as a joke

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pointed his father's gun at
the boy snoring in the flatbed,

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and then shot into the
crisp black air again

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and again jolting
the night awake,

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and we laughed until the sirens
chased us out from that field,

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leaving behind what we
could only describe then

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as a mallards carcass, but
know now as something not

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unlike childhood, but much
more like a ghost that waits

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for you in an idling truck
outside your bedroom window,

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or a dream where you
laughed yourself awake

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but can't remember why.

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