Gabby
boot: a conversation with ginny
dedicated to ron, a doctor
we try at the home together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the grass beat down
and we talked about poop.
You grow you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to book
why: for you, the harry of train driver, the
hagrid whose body is his temple,
the scabbers who will weep to the
earth. You loved the thought of
pen, the thought of broom, of pen,
of plastic. And I sat there
in the dog while you sat
on the edge. I threw. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of walking more bright,
happy, more rolling, more pretty,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
cry them one on one, hermy to
sirius, with your fingers. And your toes
lit up. I was beginning to ski,
swirling, only years later. I'll remember
you with the key in front of
your year, and your love of follow.
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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