1918

Derrick Brown's 1918


When we were just stamps and paper,
she tattooed a year on her arm: 1918.
The year time zones were made law by train companies for America,
she imagined us above time.

There was a thing.
I felt a thing roar along the tunnels of my ears,
like Santa Ana winds through a pipe organ.

She hissed a heavy weather kiss into me,
like a child whispering into a stethoscope: I need you.

We would drive as far as we could afford,
her eyes illuminating the yellow French fries of paint
streaming under our car along the dark interstate.

We tried to call it something.
We tried to name this feeling between being born alone and being dead.

We drove through every cemetery until we realized
there are still birds flying the world without names.

I fell into a swimming pool of water and engraved bullets.
Holding my breath, I imagined all those knuckle-dragoned stiletto monkeys who tried to take you out and tried to take you from me.

I found both our names on some .50 cal rounds and swam to the surface with bullets in my teeth,
and your parents’ stubborn will,
I said your parents’ blood lines and quiet disappointment could not steal this.

I know your father loved the car more than you.
Still he couldn’t keep it running.

We drive to make the car something good again,
bullets hanging from the rearview mirror.
Man, we are brief.
We are brief.