We watched a darkness he had never seen
turn into rattlesnake day, and the turquoise
sky settle in above the Jesus trees.
I suppose I should have told him then
that the scorpion, to survive, doesn't
give away its lunch to those less fortunate;
or I should have told him not to touch
the feather blue pocked cholla skin, for some things
should be thought about but not experienced;
and maybe I should have been more matter-of-fact
about that makeshift cowboy grave and said
that's what happens, son, to fools who can't obey;
and maybe I should have complained about
the hard ground that we'd slept on, or the cold air
instead of smiling at the silence of the sleeping.
Maybe I should have told him anything
—how to tie his shoes, how to comb his hair,
a technique for cleaning behind the ears—
all the things I want to shout out now
down that sad and rain-drenched street to him,
but we just sat there on that hip-bone rock
and in silence watched the sun in layers rise,
as I sit here now with him in my heart
and nothing I can say.
