Sex is in the eyes and the smell and the past.
The hint of sweat from straw-colored hair.
The taste of a smile. The lilting voice.
The slow catch of silk on nipples.
No man covets shoes, though some
covet memory. Delilah, I miss you. I miss
Tulsa dying in the rearview, the sickly linger
of your cigarettes. But I’m not humping
the passenger seat anymore. Remember
the time we got stuck in a ditch chasing
a field fire? A farmer called a sheriff, refused
to tow us, and kept his snake-rifle on us
while we scrambled to find wood
to shove under the tires. He was afraid
we’d steal the night, the fire,
the slow death of not knowing
what to believe that choked his heart.
But we were all first sons, whistle-britches,
all looking for a place to stick our hearts
for safe-keeping. The boarded-over windows
of our mothers’ eyes watched from graves half dug
but not full yet. We were forever looking back,
saying: we will stand tall when the winds die down.
Posted over on Blast Furnace