Derek Richards
trying to find dean t.
regret fastens itself to any moment of relief,
denies the author glimpses of sun,
tolerates only whiplash thoughts
aggravating balance.
one time, in new york city, i found myself
alone and disturbingly unarmed.
spanish harlem, four a.m., red toyota,
unknown pills, exceptional focus.
detail ignores generic surroundings,
demands a tear of specific garment,
procreates a thousand slices of each second
the eyes and ears only dream.
crossing the brooklyn bridge, i sobered up,
began counting New Jersey plates,
night-dreaming about my old handgun,
aching to arrive at my destination.
defending the valley
there's a shoulder bruise from a shotgun nearly as sore as the ache in the center of my chest. mary-ellen tells me she's pregnant and the rebels have taken another mountain. i could use a mug of hot coffee or a swig of grandad’s whiskey. it's colder this summer than any winter night. those first gunshots, those first villages burning, armed with an axe slicing firewood, sneaking kisses from my wife. twenty-two names came across the river spoken solemnly by a teenage boy. his horse staggered, exhausted, but the boy urged him on down the Old Road, twenty-two names fast. mary-ellen would like a daughter but we need a son. all that white powder drifting down from the mountains. blue-eyed skinny boys expertly load automatics and we've got farmers armed with rusted rakes. Captain, I believe you scored six across the stream.
my nephew examines me; he wants to smile. Are you shooting, Hedik, or are you counting? Shooting sir, but I've got two eyes. as we approach the village gates, we're laughing. the shoulder pain fades but not the ache in my chest. mary-ellen is standing there, elegant fingers stretched over her belly, imagining sundresses for that baby girl. You need sleep, my love, she says, they're past the ridge. i drop my shotgun to the canvas, fall to a knee, take a drink. I need more men, mary-ellen, not so many mountains.
