He and his mother live in a trailer,
she posits in confidential tones
with bristling brevity.
In casual conversation, Amy said
that was fucked up.
Hard truth takes your breath away and breaks your heart.

Heaving open the throttle of my
memory
we glimpse the face of that
little girl,
one female,
age 10,
his friend,
my friend
Amy,
holding his mother responsible
with a moody righteousness,
ultimately assessing who fell from Paradise.

That scene
situated itself cozily
just this side of
bright blue pain
since I’ve admitted to getting old.
Sober, it’s difficult to speak
a dizzying cascade of confessions,
and perhaps, soon,
the head and heart game
she began
will fizzle into dust
making the wrong
instantly distant, hollow.

What I want to know now
is how to live
the present above and beyond
sleep, rhythms, stability…
to strike a beautiful balance
filled with resolve
not to take
advantage of familiarity
to cast a shadow.

Literature