Found in Willow Springs 78
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FOR THEN THE EYES OF THE BLIND SHALL BE OPENED TO TODD
Todd on the front porch. Todd
in the side yard of ecstasy and earth.
Todd walking our beagle-named Ray.
Todd in new boots, in patches of grass
in a waltz of fog on the same path that tornado
tore beside our one bedroom house, house
of broken blinds, of doors that won't latch,
roof made of tin-tornado from when
Halloween night fell from the sky
in South Mississippi and left us
reeling hymns in the bathtub till morning,
mildew, mattress, iron and rust.
Todd in the long, undefiled light of morning
blue slippers which didn't fit,
which he gifted to me, and our 70 dollar ceramic heater
which was carefully researched for efficiency
to avoid tempting dust motes from the air.
Todd on the couch we bought from Goodwill.
Todd reading Yahoo for football news.
Todd pissed off about a fumble,
chugging 8 Coors the night before
before chucking a half empty can
at a speaker by the big screen.
The elegiac curve of Todd's lips in steam.
Todd singing Elvis in the shower. The kitten licking
Todd's knees, beads of water and soap, knees
which to this day won’t heal right.
Todd's father who used to have a temper,
who lashed out in a game of Monopoly
in a childlike rage in a rickety house in Georgia
where Todd asked if we could live together.
Todd in a horse-drawn carriage, Todd
in a haunted square in Savannah
where Spanish moss won't grow anymore,
where the bodies of infants were burned
and their mothers wept and my own mother
thinks our marriage might never happen.
Todd's shoulders slackening while he reads
Faulkner by the window, surrounded
by his animals, his fingers tapping the sill.
The skill of Todd's hands. What they ask of my body.
Todd waiting while I grind the coffee,
Todd claiming I never do the dishes,
wishing I'd be more social, less negative,
Todd spreading apple butter over
every cracker in my life, coddling me
for each bruise I acquire, lifting my wrists,
and turning them toward the light.
THEY WRITE DIED AT THE SCENE
not charred alive some holiday night,
not stuck in the car while flames reached
the peak of the pine trees. Todd
saw it first, but we might've passed
the fire by. Todd loves his mother,
told her all about my mother,
her turkey and gravy, all things
beautifully dull. Todd didn't want
to be the guy who didn't pull over.
Todd ran through the reeds--
Brandi Nicole, wait far me--to help
other men drag bodies from the pyre,
that mass of melted tire and metal.
I waited years ago-my own body
singed in a ditch, wet grass, smell
of my leg, my contused brain,
collapsing over and over until
the ambulance came, and I still don't know
what I didn't know then-why men run,
how one girl can plunge through glass
while another's left to burn.
In school, we measured our words,
each syllable a chorus of force and lyric.
That single beat, the weight of Todd's name
I stress even now. They never got all three
people out. We later made it home,
and I tell you, there will always be patterns,
rhythm, some strong motion
at the edge of this world. I will always
smell smoke in the air. Todd, forever
sleeping next to me. Thorns from the side
of the highway still caught in our jeans.
