West

In Oregon, a rental car and salt water sturgeon;
a comet, the halle-boppe and wine before wine was a study
On the coast, the best of me turned to butter and the butter turned bad.
Specifically it turned into an argument and a general unrest, right there in the dark redwoods, in the green tall redwoods, on the tsunami coast, in the little silver rental car. I said, “Mama, I don’t want to.” And she replied with low curled smile, “Baby, just this once.” So we did and stayed, instead of in tent, in the coastal hotel with no one there. When we made love that night, she shit the bed on orgasm. That was her thing. I didn’t care plus she was so embarrassed that it was a virtual non-issue. The shit was always cleaned up before I woke. When she finally left after attempting the impossible over a year and poorly planned birth control I locked up in a panic and settled my score with the undead and brought it to the journal and the nurse, who listened. For two years.

Back home, on Buttercup’s porch, we sat and smoked cigarettes. I watched her wincing.
“Fuck,” she winced in pain.
‘Fuck,’ I think. The indignant pain of the eye.
Fuck.