- inspired by Brokeback Mountain.
We hoard these letters because nothing
can come out of the complicated magic
we shared and you were things
that I didn't want to think about;
pictures I couldn't see with
eyes that were used to a traditional
dinner scene with lace settings and
a girl in the kitchen,
humming pretty tune that didn't fit.
But you were completely different
and that was spectacular
like a rundown sunset,
a dragonfly lost in the cherry darkness.
Boy, come on, come here..
It's all I've ever wanted to say,
but the excuses got lodged in
my throat and I spit out blood at your feet.
Like a coward, like an idiot,
I turned into a puppet with
a macho way of walking,
while you stayed strong
and dreamlike; a sweet
fire that I wished I knew how to quit.
Would you forgive me
if I said I'd meet you in El Paso
with my blue jay truck
full of last year's postcards and
a blanket for all the nights
I remember you complaining
about the cold whiskey mountain air?
I want to feel you in my arms;
not a shadow of an idea but
a real beautiful mess of forest irises,
straw-colored hair and a mouth that
tastes like drugstore candy and wasted daylight.
Boy, if it's useless,
I'd rather hear it from you
than imagine you
writing it down in
a bar near the dusty Mexican border,
surrounded by shoe-less children,
asking for coins.
I'd rather this barrio burn to the ground
in ash and pearls
than miss my chance at telling you what
the pines have known for so long,
that if you were mine,
we'd sleep side by side on
the wild mustang grass,
our cream and teal shirts brushing,
and folks here can read all about it
in beer-stained newspapers,
boy, because I don't care.
For a short circuit moment in time,
I just want you to know who I am.