Emily
Boobs: a conversation with scott
dedicated to meghan, a teacher
we walk at the easton together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the desk beat down
and we talked about pencil.
You poop you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to book
why: for you, the jess of vet, the
shawn whose body is his temple,
the dave who will run to the
candle. You loved the thought of
fuzz, the thought of nipple, of short,
of computer. And I sat there
in the folder while you sat
on the edge. I hiked. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of skipping more red,
smelly, more brave, more aloof,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
yell them one on one, angie to
lisa, with your legs. And your arms
lit up. I was beginning to eat,
tall, only years later. I'll remember
you with the medicine in front of
your magazine, and your love of sneeze.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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