May 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Two
Linda Wandt
I will never apologize
for the beat of the blood


Base of the palms
pressing eyelids
if I push any harder
itíll hurt more than
nails in the scalp.
Canít keep these
thoughts
out of motion
trying to devise ways
just to ease the flow
or maybe separate them
cause beer
doesnít work as well
as other drugs.
I didnít eat today
but I drank a lot of coffee
before the bourbon
and finding your photograph.
We were too young to
drive our own cars
but we were never too young
to buy bags
and split them up
in cemeteries
past curfew
cause neither of us
had a curfew.
It seemed safer on the streets
than at home
even with those older guys
trying to pay us to kiss
which we always did for free
alone
but getting booze meant
putting out
which sometimes
could get rough
and the beat of the blood
and I carried a flask and a knife
and you always liked that
I was hard
and had perfected a
fuck-off face
but you would try to remind me
my skin really was soft.
We walked once from my
job to your house
through the places
I would never walk alone
and you always wore a lot of colors
and a rainbow necklace to school
which I admired
but thereís
that night I wasnít there
you were so fucking trashed
a quickfall
cracked open
the back of your head
on his patio slab.
Itís probably
not that big a deal,
but maybe I couldíve helped
some people donít realize
head wounds just bleed a lot
and you had to cut your losses
and that meant me too
but itís okay,
cause by then
I was already 7 states away
trapped in a small infested room,
marriage,
thinking about calling you
but how no one
would pick up.

These arenít such hard
feelings
even that small infested room
was a long time ago.
I realize
that even
the motion
of now
will pass.