Waking in Red

If only moments of then

could sweeten me up

but I threw away my childhood

and have almost nothing left:

a pair of running sneakers broken

at the toe; a dried tulip from a date

who I left, in desire, over and over,

like pine needles scattered under 

the great tree, tipping over the roof 

of my room; what would have 

happened had I seen myself?

I loved listening to Little Wing: 

everything melts into / the sea, eventually. 

When I am 38, you said,

I will divorce and marry you. 

That seemed like a bottle flung out 

to the ocean from a burning ship.

Rats fled from me, eddies split and

broke with barrels of alcohol. Whale

semen surged and washed my deck.  

I thought you’d marry your abusive

boyfriend. That is the logic 

I understand of life: an impression 

pushed-in stays hard to punch out;

unlike the car bumper, dented 

then pressed back into shape

from the inside, with heat. 

I learned to use my heart too late. 

I washed up

and made my skin soft

and clean, only to get lost

on the way to your home.

I learned to drive after

my mind was gone. I know violence

better than you think, better

I mean than I wish to acknowledge 

in myself. That is why I love 

a hockey game. Musk of the rink,

sweet, damp. The steam rose 

before practice under the red 

awning. The stands were wooden

benches above the half glass. 

A father could throw 

himself onto the ice.