Momma said don’t look back,
just drive straight and fast down that dirt road,
black walnuts stretching their arms over, shielding,
hiding me, looking like some highfalutin ballet dancer or giving me a hug.
I pitched you your crappy cracker jack ring,
cut up all your smiles into little fine chunks, that glittery smile,
left you all your love letters, all those pretty, pretty words promised
that you’d never forget.
I dumped that whole load right there in your dying grass,
you forget to tend to things that are yours,
‘specially those things that once were live.
I watched hundreds of little bitty pieces of you,
fly, didn’t know you’d already gone,
so I am too. Looking out through yesterday’s dirt,
June bugs and flies smashed on that windshield cracked,
laying there side by side just like you and me two days ago in your rope bed
with your fist print right there smack
before my eyes, broken glasses and vows
driving down that road trying not to look
back through so much of yesterday’s dirt
and everything cracked
Gift Tag Missing
Morning sun peeled itself back,
unwrapped in crackly cellophane,
discarding the tangle of ribbon rays,
glaring in appearance.
Today would be bright and brave.
I placed my toes into the sea
and felt you shiver on the other side.
You always draw away it seems,
even with the cool of oceans current deep
the stirrings of salt and sand.
How is it I still make you move,
uncomfortable, continents a part?
Tossing country after country between our hands
with you alive right now
living on a completely different day.
..in your yesterday.
Is that why you cut hastily?
Scissors ripping through final
..strips of our days,
while I kept pressing more tape to mask?
The underbelly of the sun burns Mylar curls
Looking at your gift tag,
any mention of my name.
She let me touch
His sleeves, his military shirts
Fabrics that covered his back
The delicacy in weave of life and war
Holes were left
That wrapped securing
His rifle, her
The flag brings little comfort
She let me smell his scent
Trapped within these drawers
Pulling him free from destruction
Shrapnel in her sky
No one cares about the aftermath
As we boxed him
Heather M. Browne is a faith-based psychotherapist, recently nominated for the Pushcart Award, published in the Orange Room, Boston Literary Review, Page & Spine, Eunoia Review, Poetry Quarterly, Red Fez, Electric Windmill, Apeiron, The Lake, Knot, mad swirl. Red Dashboard released her first collection, Directions of Folding (2014).
Follow her: www.thehealedheart.net