(no subject)
February 12th
I've never had much use for bookmarks,
Only to show the plaid-shirt girls
How far into someone else's mind I've delved.
So on broken-spoke Fridays
I hold long dead Russians under my arm
Like a bird with a ribbon in his beak,
Waiting to weave this memory
Between les brindilles pliables,
Tout les moments potentiels
That flutter away, unused, on the breeze.
February 13th
I was seven, and I was afraid
From the window, the sill tasted like
The wooden trains with which I had played,
I watched other children ride their bikes.
I had seen them fall, with bloodied knees
All dusted gray-white by the dirt road,
And from behind blue walls I heard screams
For mothers who rushed to show their love.
My father took my hand and outside
There was a bike, black with green highlights
Rubber handgrips and big black tires.
I learned to ride, it was fun, it felt right.
One day I was riding in the street
And I heard nothing but the summer's breeze
But from up the hill came a red jeep
Murdering the dust as fast as he pleased.
My father came out to try and rescue me,
Planted his hands in my back,
Pushed,
I slid into the ditch
My bike beneath the jeep
My father broken, dead.
I don't ride bikes anymore.
I've never had much use for bookmarks,
Only to show the plaid-shirt girls
How far into someone else's mind I've delved.
So on broken-spoke Fridays
I hold long dead Russians under my arm
Like a bird with a ribbon in his beak,
Waiting to weave this memory
Between les brindilles pliables,
Tout les moments potentiels
That flutter away, unused, on the breeze.
February 13th
I was seven, and I was afraid
From the window, the sill tasted like
The wooden trains with which I had played,
I watched other children ride their bikes.
I had seen them fall, with bloodied knees
All dusted gray-white by the dirt road,
And from behind blue walls I heard screams
For mothers who rushed to show their love.
My father took my hand and outside
There was a bike, black with green highlights
Rubber handgrips and big black tires.
I learned to ride, it was fun, it felt right.
One day I was riding in the street
And I heard nothing but the summer's breeze
But from up the hill came a red jeep
Murdering the dust as fast as he pleased.
My father came out to try and rescue me,
Planted his hands in my back,
Pushed,
I slid into the ditch
My bike beneath the jeep
My father broken, dead.
I don't ride bikes anymore.