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denim
driving home
but waiting
at a zebra
crossing,
i
stare fixated
at a young
tanned brown
haired mother,
lighting up
the pavement
all in denim.
white coffee
legs, cypriot
skin, holding
her son's hand.
i stare fixated
through the
windscreen
for some time
and then she sees
me watching her,
stares firmly
right back at me
and pokes
her
tongue out; all
her face and eyes
smiling at me.
next thing, we
drive away
leaving behind
the moment
and the denim
mother and
a warm panic
tells me to
stop, get out
the car,
say
something
suave and reassuring.
as if.
the woman driving
would not understand,
nor would the
one on foot.
and i never do.
where the living shared foxholes
with the dead
i kept a skull,
somehow it
didn't seem
to be a
desecration. we
came
here
to
die.
you
can't
wait till
daylight
so you
can kill
somebody.
i was saved
because
of my mother's
prayers. this is
an
enemy.
this
is a rat.
you're doing
it because
you're there
and
they're
your
buddies.
we came here to die. i
couldn't tell you
how many times
i recited
the twenty
third psalm.
considering
monmouth
considering
monmouth
she is
always
doing
things for
me.
writing up
my notes,
carrying
my books
to school.
today she
said that i
could share
her cup
of
water,
if i didn't
mind the
taste of
lipstick.
she also
told me
she would
dye her
hair black
again, if
i preferred
it that way.
she is
tall,has
a big
face with
no guile
in it.
and cares
for
two horses.
she is
tall with
heavy flank
and breasts
and i
think
that
she is
authentic sad.
instead of faking it like some people.
i think
that there
will
be
something
but i can
not imagine
the inside
of her house.
to see
the sparrow's
heart
you
have to cut
it open.
she is
tall and
does things
for me.
she is
authentic
strong
and sad
and she
has wide
dark eyes:
as wet as
not knowing
how it works,
as brown
as
the bark
around the
cedar tree.
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