Friday, September 28, 2012

Rainy Day Memory

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.

1 comment:

Jack said...

I have to praise the dichotomy: There's the quiet night camping, out with nature, words not needed due to ambiance, reverence, et cetera. But then the retrospective "dang it" appears, like, "that would have been a good chance to talk." But maybe there were a lot of good chances, and this one in particular stands out for some reason.