There’s no way to know how many things I’ve seen: one million, two. Picket fences. Stalin’s underwear. A woman nursing while bouncing on a trampoline. I saw a man in a stamping plant put his hand in a press and turn his possible waving at a giraffe, possible plinking of middle C into paste. And when I saw you crying behind me going 70 in your ’99 Corolla, I thought, let’s go smell a few cedar trees. The other options are
we get drunk as an avalanche, an abattoir, or keep driving and crying, or pull over and you show me the shape of your hands around the throat of wind, I tell you I want to kill myself in French and you think I’m sharing a recipe for cake, when the truth is I want to kill myself in English and know nothing will ever take this desire away. I own four acres
and however many beetles that is, cloudshadows that is, it’s a lot of cedars, a lot of prying my lungs open in the cold to this scent that cuts an awakening through everything, I call it jumpstart, call it suddenease with tincture of deer scat. That’s all I’ve got to offer, really. Listening and that. Lending you a few bucks and shotguns shells and that. Standing beside rivers and that. But mostly that.