"8 Toes," A Weird Catastrophe Poem

                                                                 8 Toes

               when I think of you siting on your crying couch,
               holding on to a cup of homemade cocktail 
               and hoping for a secular life,
               something like a never-ending trip to Europe and discovery,
               far away from mom and dad and older brother 
               eking out their theocratic time in Kansas,
                  
               sitting on your crying couch 
               as the walls are rattling in the night 
               and your muscles are wasting away,
               I saw you, 
               a woman riding high in her head 
               and not stopping for the others to catch up,
               the single adult in the room,
               you weren’t stupid enough to catch feelings 
               or to leave the gin untarnished,
               when I think of you searching and self-deprecating 
               and dancing face to face with dark, clear-eyed boys, 
               selling your ribs, 
               latching on like a marsupial, 
               sharing your best time as the most important thing not to be wasted,

               it means more than you know,

               your severed toes 
               are lying somewhere in the village,

               looking into your eyes on your crying couch 
               and sharing something, 
               just a moment to remember imperfectly through blurred vision 
               over and over again through blurred vision,
                  
               thinking of you sitting on your crying couch,
               sitting on you sitting on your crying couch,
               hoping for a slow time on Oxford street,
               marveling at the latest fashions,
               saying that you’ll make something better someday
               inside a secular life, 
               with everyone else one-hundred miles behind you 
               trying to find the same thing
               vibrant and real, 
                  
               when I think of you sitting there,
               it’s probably best, 
               you or I would be unfair to each other,
               these words will be in the trash
               and can I ask you what you were thinking then?
               that slow look you gave,
               years ago now.
                  
               how's the marriage going?

               names get logged and secrets die,
               the money runs out eventually,
               but you in a good crying chair
               with a good drink
               and a rosey head 
               pushing your (dry shampooed) hair over your ears,
               remembering the long drives and the train stations,
               remembering the impossible fields,
               the loneliness you couldn't understand,
               but leaving something for everyone else to notice the next day, 
                  
               it sends the mind wandering to where you are, 
               what you’re doing, 
               are you happy, are you alive, 
               and have you found the perfect place 
               to sit and watch 
               the sky turn black to blue 
               on the nights when you can’t sleep 
               and no one else is around

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