Imagine a boy wrapped in ratty
bearskins, with unkempt hair laden
with lice and fleas — know
that he comes from mountain people, those
who live so deep in the hills they barely speak
broken English —and in the dark, moonless
night he crouches sobbing
before two bloody, torn
corpses. He is wild
eyed as his parents
have been lost to the hungry
coyotes; the boy sniffs
and rubs at his beat red
eyes, hiccups, and howls
down at the gray, cavernous
mountainside. And so as mountain
people do, he pulls himself up
from his haunches, wipes
the sticky, drying snot
and tears from his nose, and returns
to the small dwelling he had shared
with his parents. Here, he scurries
to pile up leaves and tiny sticks, then strikes
a match to them.
As the boy has seen his parents tend
the flame many times before, he does not flinch
at the heat on his flesh. Soon
he is using a bigger limb to poke
the leaves and sticks around, nursing
the flicker of flame until it grows
higher and hotter —the crick-crackle
and snap of collapsing
limbs from the fiery burning
pit fills the small shelter, attempting
to penetrate the silence
of the night— warming
his flesh to the point it glistens
with sweat. Later, he leans back on his mattress
of straw, digs his dirty fingernails into his scalp
and scratches, and then begins moving the blade
of his knife over the end of a sturdy
stick, sharpening it to a point
so precise it draws blood
from the palm of his outstretched
paw. Just as he'd seen his father
do so many times before, the boy walks
into the chilled mountain morning and climbs
the hills and valleys in search
of the coyotes. One, two,
a dozen, how ever many he can find and sphere
with the homemade arrows;
then he will stand over their fury
brown, doglike bodies. Imagine,
the boy in the ratty bearskins weeps
not only for his parents but also for the fallen
beasts— his howls of pain caress
the mountains and reach the ears
of the wildlife:
jackrabbits, goats, bear,
and they stiffen
their necks, and feel a pang
for their brother.
What are Hell's circles but dinners and kisses and cupping
of the other's most private spots, all with straying
eyes, and never realizing this as fact. What are Hell's circles but locked
doors behind bare, shadowed
rooms. What are Hell's circles but windowless
houses, the interiors hanging in long
shadows that are demons named loss and hate. What
are Hell's circles but houses too
quiet without children, toys and toothless smiles
and bitty-sticky hands reaching out to you.
We're in Hell's
circles, cry
the childless couple,
their shrill voices
bouncing
off the white walls.
What are Hell's circles but the mother
holding her blue-faced stillborn neatly wrapped in blanket, wondering
the infants eye color—cornflower blue, warm-honey brown, or
slate. What are Hell's circles but the uncle who loves his niece
with hidden touches and hot rimmed eyes.
What are Hell's circles but childhood
crushes as intangible as orange sherbert sky
or space. What are Hell's circles but the blue haired lady who walks
over fallen leaves of tangerine and crimson knowing she too approaches a new season
I'm in Hell's
circles, says
the man who
touches
his wife but
feels nothing.
At fifteen the boy with the mud black
Curls, thumbed
a ride
and left home. Up in the big rig
it was warm
and a frozen
town at his back, the boy's
breath paces
itself and the hot trembling
in his temple
dulls, becomes miniature
and distant
as his kin.
The boy who had thumbed the ride
was not running
for there was nothing—
a textile mill long boarded
up, half a dozen struggling filling
stations, and lonely ramshackle
houses with peeling paint—
rather he was abandoning
the makings of a decaying
town, one known to grip
its talons
around one's ankles and yank;
he was leaving them behind like a snake
sheds its skin or a butterfly its cocoon.
The boy who had abandoned his home
jumps down from the rig
and feels his feet sink
in the soft white sand
—the Sunshine State—
all around palm trees sway and pelicans peck
at crumbs on the boardwalks. He slings
his duffel bag over a shoulder, thanks the man,
and squints
into the warm sun.
Cold a gray faded
memory, he walks over the sand down
to the snapping
water, and here he removes
his sneakers and socks; he sits
with his feet tickled
by the waves, staring out at the sky, clear
as mica.
