Foxy

Your neck muscles in sharp focus,
broadcasting down and dirty;
a whiff of you
a little too much like an allergy.

I remember crow noise,
a few hushed words on AM radio
over some saint no one’d heard from in a while.
Only the satellites could say where we’d parked.

We hit eyes
and they were all big
and it was like,
like you were in love with me.

Then you said,
“I gotta pee so bad!”
and laughed

ecstatic, wily,
a single shaft of sunlight.

I didn’t know you,
but I knew you well.

Saint Valentine’s Day

Let’s go to the Sweethearts’ Dance
at the basement of the rifle club.
No cover
but the password is:
your step-father’s death
by hunting,
which is also a story of our first date,
set between us on the table.
A bleeding out,
a ringing in the ears,
the curl of his…