Hwy 87 outside Scottsdale, AZ |
||
| Twisted cactus, | ||
| I fear those thorns | ||
| this fear of being | ||
| so close to you | ||
| what's wrong with me | ||
| this feels so familiar | ||
| so much like | ||
 |
where I | I saw you |
| just came from. | on the road into Phoenix | |
| just me and the car, | ||
| out for days | ||
| I had to stop and get out | ||
| in the angry traffic | ||
| to believe you were real; | ||
| until I came here | ||
| I think you just grew here | I'd never seen | |
| right by the road on your own | a living thing like you. | |
| with no one to tell you you can't, | ||
| and me just last week | ||
| and two thousand miles back | ||
| would have envied you then. | ||
| I thought you were | ||
| ten feet tall, | ||
| this memory of dad | ||
| when I was small | ||
| and you too, stood | ||
| in the midst of my chaos, | You weren't green | |
| harsh, awesome and silent. | like the picture cartoons | |
| with coyotes hiding behind you | ||
| you were like me, imperfect and real | ||
| flecks, splotches and dust, | ||
| a motionless hobo, covered in stubble; | ||
| you, by the side of the road, | ||
| the towering vagrant, | ||
| me, running girl, out here with you | ||
| both misfits, a pair, | ||
| I cried for us both | ||
| This close, | a tear shared | |
| your skin had gouges | for you and for me. | |
| some hadn't healed well | ||
| I had to touch them, | ||
| part curious, | ||
| part of me crying to comfort | ||
| I thought of your pain, | ||
| remembering mine | ||
| I said a prayer, | A piece of metal | |
| hoping someone would hear. | had buried inside you | |
| I couldn't tell | ||
| which part of a car | ||
| it had been once | ||
| Your flesh had grown over it | ||
| I carefully touched it | ||
| holding my breath and afraid | ||
| But you'd healed | ||
| and I've come here | ||
| hoping to heal | ||
| When I drove off | so maybe I've finally found | |
| I watched in the mirror: | the right place. | |
| you, staying behind, | ||
| while I kept leaving | ||
| it felt so familiar, | ||
| and I kept telling myself | ||
| with practice, | ||
| this should hurt less | ||
| each time. | ||
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) | ||
