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.

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