Sunday, January 29, 2017

History Lesson

I come from central desert people, far as I know—
dirt farmers, ranch hands, fry cooks, the occasional card sharp.

Hoboes when they had to, mothers of small broods, women who waitressed
at the local diner. They all married once or twice.

One uncle was a prison guard, another an oil rig man,
one aunt went crazy without ever crying,

and dad could siphon gas from a poorly parked car.
Just people, old as the weather, with dust in their hearts 

and a bleak light in their eyes on a Saturday night.  
Mabank, Terrell, Dallas, Ft. Worth, Lubbock, and back—

they scratched a line between those towns
as though latitude was fate, as though they were partial to tornadoes, 

as though their feet were magnets on an iron highway.
If they had a history, they left it in those dry places and moved on, 

maybe late at night, maybe the next morning when the wind picked up.
I wonder if love tasted like water in their mouths?


9-8-15

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