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The Front: Bush at War: Laura |
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by Mark Doten
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In the headlights of the parked cars. Saw Laura. Drinking peach
schnapps and orange juice. Cheeks flushed. Singing. And turning
circles. In Midland. Those gravel pits. Those dry hot nights.
Me a child of guns. On the ranch. Hunting quail. Also turkeys. Wild
and domestic.
Asked her to the dance. But no. She was going with that other boy.
The boy who died.
And this pain in my throat.
Last night saw her crying. Lights off. Blanket to chin. Face to
wall. That pretense. So I knew.
I should stop. Writing on these pads. This. And this. But I’m
choking. On my snack.
I brought her the card. From the funeral. For the boy who died. She
didn’t dare. Show her face. Either this will bring us together. Or
destroy us. She said. The whole town destroyed. Or brought together.
To be more perfect. Than we were.
She taped postcards. In phonebooks. The newspapers. The flags. And
those children. Somewhere. Staring. Somewhere.
Those days I drank. So much. When mom called. Me down to breakfast.
I’d hear her voice. At school.
I brought Laura flowers. Books. And little animals. Leapt from pine
cones. And pipe cleaners.
She cut picture. From library books. And pasted them.
This pain. Gets so bad. That for fifteen minutes at a time. I forget.
Then it comes back. I’m choking. On my snack.
When she drove me. To the clinic. We drank Jack. From cups. She said
that’s. It.
And saved me.
I went to war. To destroy the. Creosote bushes. Staked the desert.
With kite string. And yardsticks. And burned the oldest. Clonal
colony. Then in balloon brigades. On rolling green. Enemy
encampments. We dropped. Charges. While men below. Guided. Us with
kite string.
I keep blacking out. It’s giving me a. Headache.
She saved me. From the drink. I saved. Her from the boy. The one who
died. She was drinking. But only. For the boy. I was drinking. For me.
I hear her. Treading above through. Our home. Find these notes. Love.
And again. Save me.
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