Loot
Scenes come in pieces (a poem for Monday and the films I am still writing)
Sometimes when I am at the movies seeing
something else.
Bloody mouth.
Usually while driving.
Pulling her mother’s dress out of the closet.
Sometimes when I am trying to sleep while the baby is asleep.
All the dogwood blooming.
“I don’t think about you.”
He turns to look at her. Propping his head up on his hand.
(And god that mouth. It should hurt.)
The two of them naked and her body still numb from delivery.
His hand having just run along the scar there.
The lake private.
The Mormons planting the apple trees.
Turning and propping her head up to mirror him.
Her silence.
The wind.
