red wolf, stray dog
by Z.Y. Churchhill
I.
i told you once that we had to get out of here.
we had nothing in common,
nothing but an all-consuming desire to leave this town,
a desire with claws
sharp like the barbed wire fences we ripped our clothes on
thick like the mud i lost my shoe in
when we went running through the hills at sunset
fleeing rusted-out pickup trucks
in the backyard of the house we grew up in and out of.
the air ripped my lungs
and the mosquitoes were sucking me dry
but the orange light caught your hair
and you were so beautiful i almost forgot to hurt.
i told you once that you were too big for this
place. i knew it even before i punched you in the mouth outside the strip mall
and you hit me with an open hand
and we both cried and licked our wounds
until we couldn’t stand to be apart anymore. we were sitting on the sidewalk
and you handed me a beer bottle
and i couldn’t decide whether to drink it
or smash it and gut you like a fish.
then you smiled at me
fragile
and i remembered it was
only you.
glass knives and glass
teeth.
fragile
i thought then i could’ve shattered you
now i’ve got my tail between my legs.
that power doesn’t go both ways.
are you still my littermate?
is that any different than a soulmate?
|
do you remember summer where everything smelled like sweat and sunscreen |
or maybe what i’m seeing is the imprints of your canines on my knuckles |
i told you once that i could sense it
our
imminent freedom but maybe i was
just smelling it on your breath,
parts per million.
when i fell off my skateboard
you kissed the jagged wound on
my knee
and when you came up
for air you smiled. i can still see my blood on
your teeth
and lake water
and lake water
half inch deep
from when i hit you harder than i’d ever hit anyone before.
the thing was, i knew you’d forgive me
and i wanted to know what it was like to hurt someone.
now i wish i had never learned.
“does it hurt?”
what do you think, stupid?
there isn’t any other reason i’d be crying.
now it’s autumn
now my knee is scarred
and we haven’t talked in six months
and the pickup trucks have been sold for parts.
the only thing i can smell is crushed-up
fallen leaves on the wind,
and the only thing i can sense is your absence
like a missing limb
like a fallen soldier
i open my mouth
or put my pen to paper
but my vocal cords erode from disuse and my thumbs fall off
and my teeth grow sharp
and all i can do is howl my anguish
out into the hills that we once ran through
two beasts becoming one.
i told you once that one day
|
and the for-sale sign |
i would come to your front door with a bird between my teeth |
and ask to come in
and tell myself that the boards over the
windows were purely decorative
was nothing more than a lawn ornament i’m not angry
only disappointed
that you didn’t take me with you. the least you could’ve done was take me with you.
what am i supposed to do with this carcass you left behind?