I watched a skirt of snow flung all at
once upon
the airplane’s tongue. It swooned like
a snake
to the charm of the snow, it took the breath of every
flake, each howling mouth quieted by
God himself,
it bathed in it. The breath of the frozen lungs of
the tiny flakes of life for life, for all, they spoke and
they collapsed, and I watched without an umbrella
as each ghost was collected between
the giant
tires and the cracks in the ground. I knew that
we would get to where we were going, just like that.
When you came, I held my pockets. You
carried
an umbrella, but you didn’t offer it to me. You
were a stilled shuttle – the airplane, its wings – but you
did not honor the marriage of heaven and me.
(I think about you when I go to sleep, but
I never
dream – you pile memories in postcards from wires,
from hangers, from gloved touch, from Roswell.)
You twice removed your hand from
my fingers,
and twice I stretched away from you.
That’s all.
I had not seen enough. And in you, I had
felt horror.
We walked back to the car, and I heard the roar of
an engine, but you didn’t look back. I was
a little
bit impressed. Either way, I felt like a ticket, ripped
in half, gathering souls in a black trash bag:
I am a child of the genius of man, and I
allow you
in and out of the world – in an out of
memory – and
how do you thank me but with a vague
sigh and
a feigned discussion about the charm of
the south