I saw her standing on South Seventh
She wore a dress made of patches
that strove to imitate the sun.
I remember thinking she looked a little lost,
perhaps I wasn't looking at her in the right way.
I didn't know then that father urges had twisted her life
that at anytime between midnight and six
she was an open convenience store.
I didn't know as a kid
she was cheapened at least three times a week.
Thinking about it now
perhaps she wore that dress made of star patches
so anyone who came near her would fear getting burned.
We linger over hot chocolate during summer mornings
because heat belongs to that season.
She tells me things I don't really want to know
But she doesn't mean to scare me,
she just doesn't know I'm there sometimes.
Photo shots from the past cling to her
like seaweed pulled from its ocean cocoon.
She tells me her memories exist in faded shades of yellow
like old western movies.
It's easier to skip over them that way.
And sometimes she screams at the night because
it's too easy to remember unwanted hot breaths at the hollow of her neck.
So she slips out of her canopy bed
and scatters tacks in front of the door,
scatters tacks as single armed guards against memories,
she scatters her fears before her.
My feet still have marks from running into her room in the morning.
She tells me not to be so scared for her
but sometimes when she dangles her legs
tracing ancient runes with her toes
I'm afraid if I touch her, she'll crumble
like newspapers dried in the sterility of an attic.
But when the ghosts of motions don't wrack her body
she whispers to the world late at night
because she believes whispers were made to laugh
and the world needs to smile more.
I've seen her smile maybe five times,
I'ver heard her laugh only twice.
I remember she was standing outside
her feet planted in the dirt
to get to know the earth better, she said.
I think, though, really she was making sure
the wind wouldn't steal her away.
She looked so ethereal right then, and I told her so.
She looked away and laughed.
She left last week.
Thursday night, she couldn't wait till the weekend to go.
Said she was off to see the Grand Canyon,
to see God and Woodie Guthrie.
That was the second time she laughed.
Maybe she'll get rid of father phantoms there.
I told her I'd never see her again,
She said I was wrong, kissed me goodbye,
got into her rusted-over Chevy and left blasting CCR.
I went back inside, turned off the light,
thought if someday I went to the Grand Canyon
I'd be able to smell her on the wind,
because I believe the wind will swirl around her sunshine patches
and she will stand illuminated by this breeze.
Free.
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