I pick her up on Central Avenue, Saturday night,
drugged out of her mind or crazy some other way.
She’s young and beautiful, that tall, lanky look
of models or pampered Connecticut debutantes.
She says her Mercedes is stranded at the bottom
of the Salt River, under water, says she had to swim
to shore. It’s August in Phoenix, the river nothing but
dust and memories, but I take her home with me anyway.
When she removes her dress, I see she’s pregnant,
just beginning to show. After we have sex, she says,
Look, we’ve made a baby, just like Mary and Joseph.
I let her use my shower.
Afterwards, she says she wants new clothes, something
of mine to remember me by. I tell her all my clothes
are dirty, that I’ve enchanted her dress, renewed it
with magic, and she claps her hands and kisses me.
Twenty minutes later, I drop her off at Dunkin’ Donuts,
say I’ll park the car round back then join her. I watch her
walk toward the door, long hair shining in the streetlight,
then drive away.
A Christmas gift from
my brother and me,
paid for with our paper-route
profits, initially a strand
of pearls, exchanged
when my father said,
boys, these are lovely, but
what your mother really needs
is a good winter coat:
worn for years through frost
and rain and uncertain days
till worn out—the finest gift
I ever received, my mother
said. I loved that coat, cried
when I had to let it go—
cherished, complete in the
best way a thing can be, as
exquisite as a well-lived life.
Yesterday, I realized I’ve misplaced
the photograph of my father as a child,
the one in which he’s standing with his brothers
beneath some willows, somewhere
in Pennsylvania or perhaps Ohio, near a river,
shadows across their faces beneath the trees.
They’re gone now. The shadows. The faces.
Most likely even the trees.
Standing naked in the front yard
of my girlfriend’s house, 3:00 a.m.
Sunday morning, a small,
delicious defiance, air smelling
clean, temperature in the 70s,
breeze like cashmere across my skin,
each pore open to the night, tingling.
I could hear George Benson
on the stereo inside:
Everything must change...
nothing stays the same,
the young become the old...
And I didn’t care that it wouldn’t last,
the exquisite now—without thought
or analysis, past or future—this moment,
stars grinning down, me grinning back.
has worked as a writer and editor for more than 30 years. In addition, he has taught writing
at the university level as well as for the Southern California Writers’ Conference.
His poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of publications, including North
American Review, The Iowa Review, The Writer, Margie, Nimrod, and the Los Angeles
Times. His work has also been produced on stage and for radio and television. His
publications include The Way of the Snake, a book of poetry on the war in Vietnam;
Second Skin, a collection of poetry and short fiction; and several chapbooks.