The Years

Two-by-two. Autumn and winter. Summer and spring. Father and daughter 
on the right lane of a road. In the distance, an ocean, or the shore. 

Seagulls and laughter. When they brought me up I was the wild pack 
of dogs and I was the teat. I was the beans and ever-blesséd cornbread. 

Fried eggs and gravy. Wild mustangs and wild flowers. The little girl 
pulls the fingers off grown men and keeps them in a tiny purse. 

The little girl pulls the hearts out of grown women and eats them 
with salt and pepper. Morning has broken. There was no wedding china. 

The man and the woman made a shadow in the bedroom, and the shadow 
made a child. Another year, and the people all sing the same songs. 

Another year, champagne bottles, cigarette butts, black-eyed peas, 
dirty napkins. What future does the future hold? What tense in which 

do I reside? Country line dancing. Wind sprints. Hopscotch, and almost 
everything else that requires two feet. Was I born Christian and split? 

Was I born giving a damn? The best stories always begin with a child. 
The new year always begins with a whimper and a parade. 

You're not sorry for anything. You're not even close. 
We are miles apart and one of us is driving a car right now, the other 

sitting at a chair, reading. The little girl waves her hand in the air 
and washes time away. It goes so quickly. It vanishes like nothing at all.