Anniversary

MEMOIR (and) GRAND PRIZE FOR MEMOIR IN PROSE OR POETRY

JOE WILKINS

A long time ago now,

rageful and drunk,
I drove hell-bent down the highway
ninety miles an hour or so—

it was April,
the ice on the river breaking up,
sparrows scavenging the puddles,

what the fuck did I think I was doing?
With my fist, I hammered
on the trailer door, yelled for you.

Your father answered,
in his yellowing t-shirt and undershorts.
He eyed me, scratched himself,
told me to go home. So I did.
And that was it,

for love anyway—
I was eighteen and the-hell-out-of-there soon;
sure in all matters it was just this wrong
world, that I was right. And we both knew

 

To read the rest, please click to subscribe…

 

• • •