Lucas Pingel

A Stream, A Raincoat, A Tattooed Silhouette

**


This is the winter when rotting is indistinguishable from wanting. I have busted the cassette wide open on purpose, wrapped the thin strands of tape around my neck and wrists in preparation to tell you I love you. But for some reason, when I see you soaking your feet in two buckets of salt water, I am deafened by the clackety-clack of plastic galloping behind me. And there’s that smell. That sour smell.

*........*........*

I throw a rock

........into the stream

................because I am tired

of rehearsing lines.

........The ripples

................draw wrinkles

across my face

........and I see

................what I might

look like

........forty years from now.

Allow me

........to end this song

................in falsetto,

let me fasten

........the training wheels

................back to the bicycle

which has miraculously

........been cured of rust,

................and let me go back

to where I found her

........in the cornfield

................the day

the windchimes hushed.

........I have lost

................that boy

somewhere between

........the field

................and the stream,

somewhere between

........the seed

................and the plant.

We hadn’t drawn

........a single frame

................together yet.

If I hadn’t pulled

........her hair from the dirt,

................fastened her to my back

as the world spun us

........until we stuck there forever,

................perhaps I could have

farmed the land myself,

........I could have built the castle.

................And about her face,

would it have been

........just a lonely lawn ornament

................left for the winter

to claim?

........I am a poor man,

................eternally selfish

the way I take

........a fistful of thorns

................and flick my wrist

just to find which ones

........fly back into the world

................and which ones

find a home in my flesh.

*........*........*

Here is the graffiti of our lawn, made of dandelions and grass. Here is the fountain I have struck with blistered knuckles. We know only what the water knows. Maybe tomorrow we will take our flashlights into the field in hopes of yellowing the gray, call ourselves thieves though we resolve to plunder no more. Tonight, a ceiling fan, a rusted brass instrument, and a blurred vision in the bathroom mirror.

*........*........*

Lightning split our yard into

........two young lips

................turned sideways

and cracked along the fold.

........If this had happened

................when we were younger,

I might have planted

........seeds here, in an attempt

................to suture the earth’s flesh

with vegetables in different shades

........of October, always

................your favorite month.

I see this version of myself

........working my way outward,

................kneading the seam

in a gentle precision,

........in a manner resembling

................the way I decide I will

touch your foot tonight

........when you least expect it.

................How I will press my thumbs

over each callous,

........work my fingers against

................the arches, until finally

I spread your toes apart

........to weave my fingers between.

................Perhaps, a windmill.

Perhaps, a row of corn.

*........*........*

This is where I should

........leave you.

................Everything

is browning outside,

........and I still haven’t

................given you the trinket

I saved for when

........the forests should part.

................There’s a little hair

left to lose, and I

........can feel my inside

................voice swelling against

my chest. Turn

........your head so I can

................cough. It is so cold,

and there are worlds

........rattling against themselves,

................slowing my veins.

Forgive me, I’ve

........always lacked grace

................under pressure,

but I suppose

........it’s not always a sad thing

................to discover a toy globe

imprinted in your fist

........that you unclenched

................and dropped years ago,

but thought you still

........had a grip on.

**

return to sawbuck 4.4

**
Lucas Pingel lives in the Twin Cities, and teaches at St. Catherine University. He is the author of two chapbooks, most recently All Types of Breath Included (Further Adventures, 2009). Other work of his has appeared in The North American Review, Cant, Ellipsis, and The William and Mary Review.