Poetry | September 01, 1997

On a bucket outside the Saint Nowhere feed barn,

cold, stolen apple juice dribbling down my chin,

I looked out toward the madrones along the coast.

Above my head hung a starfish and lucky

horseshoe and a stencil of a ram.

When the sun dulled orange and green,

I ducked into the theater down the street.

Han Solo, my idol, was frozen in a pit:

invulnerable, brazen, closed. I wanted

to kiss him; I wanted to be him; I couldn’t tell.

Afterwards, pedaling my dirt bike home

I pulled daredevil wheelies in the road,

jumped over stones and gulches and farmland.

When I got back my pants were muddy,

my skin luminous with a newfound glow.

Now, the selfsame myth of the invincible

keeps me most nights alone. And I am rent

with a gnostic’s nostalgia, glum elbows

under my chin. Back then I was so tough,

I could brave even the most inclement weather;

so young, I was not torn apart by awe.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.

SEE THE ISSUE

SUGGESTED CONTENT