Feet find an exile path. Hands pluck a life-sized heart of stone from its downy green nest –before last months sheep came– before all this stubble &hay for backyards.
Feet find an exile path. Eyes plead for cloud cover, a strewn sympathy for this dry creek bed, but the sky’s full of itself &chokes on a perpetual wash of its own perfect cup.
Feet find an exile path. Tongues pray for a touch, or maybe a rain to baptize dogs of flesh &fill empty vessels which are vapors (or even less than that) every morning beneath this cloudless composure of poised light.
I’ve nearly forgotton about our late July trips to the dump, but I have muscle memory of it.
In the back of dad’s ford truck, I sat on the wheel hub, hemmed in by splintered two by fours with holes in them from the nails I pounded out, some powdery drywall puzzle pieces I helped tear apart, and the broom mom gave me to sweep it all out with when we were done.
“Get it out there, girl!” Dad hollered at me with his thumbs tucked under his overall straps just below the silver buckles. He’d feed me more wood so I could far-fling it, shot-put it, side-wind it, or swing toss our demolition into the hole we called, ‘stinking oblivion.’
I heaved everything we had into a mingled mixed-up mountain of tree branches, cut grass and splintered lumber, being careful not to put a foot too close to the edge. Always, after we finished, dad would wipe his brow with a blue bandana folded four times inside his left pocket, and open the red ice chest to retrieve chilled Visine drops for his tired eyes, along with one fresh soda a piece for him and me.
We’d sit on the tailgate, taking swigs of orange pop. I’d swing my legs out over the great chasm, all satisfied-like.