When the Wrong Words Get Said

Car-tire against gravel,
rough smell of beer
and roasted corn,
heat-lightning like a sine
wave loops across a pit
of gray sky between pole-light
and the quiet barn;
the low of cows,
moonshine slips in like a tongue
through the treeless hedge fence;
the empty faces of women glow,
a child in shirtsleeves gums an apple
while the mutt runs a rough circle
around the feet of your friends,
pissing every time someone raises a hand.
Your wife says fuck it. Goes to bed.
Shuts the door. Says go ahead and drink.
Be with your friends.

Wrong words get said.
Your head breaks like a fist
against a stone wall,
knuckles feeding fire.
Somewhere the swollen lips
of angels call you home,
but before you go smash-mouthed
in to the house to watch your kids breathe,
stagger into your marital bed,
you tongue-kiss a seventeen-year-old,
realize the sweetness in her mouth
is your own blood.




Phlogiston

Don't call me late again, knocking your drunk
head on my door. You're a cracked engine block
sitting in the car like always but useless as tits
on a boar hog at least from the outside.
You burned the eggs when I let you cook
that one time and we ended up eating
bear-claws for breakfast and cold coffee.
You shook so badly you couldn't press
the button on the microwave and your whole life
dribbled out of you in sobs like you'd pissed
down my leg. I can only do so much for you,
prop you up when you're about to hit the floor,
buy you Cokes to wet your chapped tongue,
clean your pretty blue cowboy boots of puke,
curse when you kick them against the divot
in the floor near the entrance of my trailer.
You need the heat turned up high and blankets
crowded between your thighs. I left your bra
and panties on last night; I didn't want you
to think I'd taken anything from you but now
I've pretty much decided: I wouldn't piss on you
if you was on fire. This time it's all on you.
I've had enough. I'm only interested in how you burn.