I rarely drove in high school, Dad didn’t trust me to not hit
others like he hit me.
Shotgun with one another in search of land
to never live on or off of but we’d be home before stars.
Vast dark landscape was just cow shit where light stopped.
When is it too old for child abuse,
When is it too old to be pathetic?
When was too young for it to not be our fault?
I buckled up my young ‘un, said let’s ride across land, boy.
He had questions I couldn’t catch off the west coast but I was
a vacationing southerner Biblically raged there wasn’t more, like
a meaty husk hanged as divers’ wrists and fists sogged dock wood.
Not for what I did or where we went or who he was,
two thousand miles into America, I started hitting.
I alone was there and he alone had it coming.
Roots held teeth, but one punch wasn’t enough,
as we both didn’t believe our pain.
Another came, a passed down double-tap.
Tasting old young blood, Why are we doing this?
Because we weren’t alone until now. Because we don’t have a home.
Just one another. Just one… Can’t we talk this over? Could we?
We could say we love one another. Then his hand rolled
into a rock dug out of earth’s high mileage face
to crack grayed corners of peripheral vision.
One whispered, one screamed a name that couldn’t be our own.
Hands off the wheel, without sin we cast stones to kill,
and we didn’t need to kiss to taste our blood.