You were beautiful—even in those clompy
brown brogans—as you stood amidst the cypress,
carving a heart that rode a moth into the bark,
and beneath it the motto, Love is the reason
to breathe. We hiked beyond the stand of trees
by the lake to our cabin—or shack, to hear you
tell it—and turned on the satellite tv. A preacher
pontificated about Jesus drinking gin
in a North Korean jail. Yes, I guess
that could be true, I mused. You turned him
off, strolled to the window, and sighed,
I wish I were off the wagon,
as you viewed the vineyards. Let’s walk
into town, I said. No, let’s drive the Buick
instead. You said, By the way, I like
your shirt, how high its linen butterflies soar.
Oh yeah? I answered. We closed the door
with creaky hinges, and the sun
beyond the hill scorched us as we drove
into the town named Last Chance.
David Spicer has published over seven hundred poems. Nominated for a Best of the Net four times and a Pushcart twice, he is author of six chapbooks and four full-length collections, the latest two American Maniac (Hekate)and Confessional (Cyberwit.net). His fifth, Mad Sestina King, is forthcoming from FutureCycle Press.