We shot this picture of you
of Lake Michigan, by the shores of Chicago.
Now, its my only map to you Prairie Man. No matter what
your condition, those ARMS are big.
even with Malibu Millie still tattooed there
You are a kid in bears arms, familiar,
as my mother.
When you love a man long enough
after image lingers around the edges
of your features. Nose, mouth, eyes,
contours, doubles together in lapsed
time, long enough to collect a multitude
of fears. I run
convulsive, into her embrace.
She catches me just in time, from the fatal fall.
The last thing I see is your face.
every day, even before the world begins. The first thing, imprinted
inside me. It bares the look of mourning.
you means no rescue from the day. I hear you call
Hello, I'm home, almost
absently. I trace the path of your face
flat, gregarious around your eyes.
I locate your love
fierce in agony
glaring at my sight, bloodless,
rusted, from old wars.
She's frail now,
blind, speaking to groups about old age.
Her authority on this grows daily,
you dread, where the lay of the land comes
true, in the dreams you make up to keep
it from happening. I pretended I was an orphan
adopted as something to tide you over.
to be my mother, you cavorted, fragilely
your belly to mine. Your shaft volunteers. Coupled,
we swim in our juices - calm waters and rough seas
until our tides
dual as winds across a prairie,
to sit on the edge
the eye of armed memory.
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