Words of Acadiana

  I buried a version of myself without flowers I buried a version of myself without flowers No casseroles cooling on church tables No black umbrellas opening like wounds Just the desert wide as forgiveness and the long ache of wind moving through dry grass like someone whispering my old name for the last time I carried him carefully The man who learned how to survive by becoming useful beautiful enough quiet enough wanted enough to remain invited into rooms that never loved him back I folded his shirts like prayer flags I thanked him for keeping me alive through fifty years of highways and motel mirrors of love that arrived hungry and left before morning of standing perfectly still while entire worlds were built on top of him I loved him mostly That is the hardest part Not every life deserves escape Some deserve mourning So I walked him out past the last gas station past the skeletal fences past the mountains that look bruised at sunset The desert did not ask questions It only open...

  Bathwater Blues II (Holy Water Heartbeat) (Verse 1) I still check in under fake names Still light cigarettes off motel saints Still leave the TV talking low Like somebody might come home Amarillo’s all lavender twilight Truck stop angels and porch-light eyes And I wear your memory loose now Like your flannel falling off my side There’s rosary beads around the lamp shade Lip print kisses on a Styrofoam cup You’re somewhere west of Tucumcari Probably smoking with your boots kicked up (Chorus) Still the best damn bath in the Amarillo Motel 6 Steam rising slow like a prayer on my lips Radio static and the ice machine crying While I replay your hands on my thighs in silence Baby, love used to feel like a roadside crucifix All blood red heartbreak and beautiful tricks But now the water glows soft in the neon mist And I don’t feel lonely in it (Verse 2) There’s a motel Bible by the shampoo packets Your name folded inside like a secret habit Page marked somewhere near forgiveness Though ...