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Loss (2/11/2014)

It is a stone that cannot be lifted
Planted into the earth of the soul.

Buried under the cat that he drove over 
Pressing it into the ground in the ridges of the tractor tire.
And the jungle gym of his arm that I swung under
Long hair, laughing.
And tongue sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, an old apple
Brought in a brown bag to the field at noon.
Shouts and a broken plate, his fist to my face.
And his hands under his head folded in worry.  
The girl he loved was getting away.
A single red rose in a small crystal vase 
on her concrete steps.
Talking on the green couch downstairs of the past
Of the future.
And the letters from San Francisco, 
The letters from Carolina, 
The letters from Japan,
Begging for baked goods and promises not to enlist. 
The launch off the rope swing into the Missouri,
Profanities screamed over the current into the bright sky.
The stick to Harley’s leg for one more day.
Sneaking out my bedroom window
Drinking a bottle of rum in the tent in the front yard
In a marijuana haze.
My white dress, dancing, his blue and gold uniform,
My manicured nails in his hands and his head over my shoulder
Tears on my back.
And the new girl who wore her own white dress.
And his eyes reflected in his sons
Tiny pieces of him in his arms.
His voice so gentle, so close to them.
Jumping and screaming, laughing bedtimes, 
Children being thrown upside down 
Tickles and goodnights in the nightlight
The darkness in the windows waiting.
Cold beers on the front porch, 
The hum of the crickets call 
To the moon.

Dirt on a stone, 
Dirt on a stone.

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