The Tourniquet

The first look in your green Honda Accord.

The 45 record “Just Breathe,” repeating on the turntable in your bedroom.

The bedroom with no walls, only studs, you gripping 2 X 4’s for leverage.

The time you said to objectify you on your kitchen floor on Christmas Eve.

The confessional in my clawfoot tub as I traced words on your stomach.

The slap across the face on the porch of my Portland apartment.

The showing of the tangerine-lace bra in church to piss off your deacon father.

The nonchalance of your excellent vocabulary.

The trucker hat in the Depoe Bay motel room.

The tent pitched in the shadow of Mt. Rainier.

The blue swimsuit on the Clackamas River while rednecks ogled.

The risque motion when you stepped out of the shower.

The curling smoke of your clove cigarettes in a cemetery.

The William Faulkner discussion with bourbon on the rocks in a Seattle bar.

The illicit meeting near the merry-go-round as your son played while husband played video games at home.

The drive back from Seaside with empty wine coolers rattling in the trunk.

The sprint to the ocean wearing nothing but my corduroy jacket.

The sneaking upstairs as my father died downstairs.

The instruction to walk behind so you could swivel your ass in faded Levi’s and someone would see (me).

The breaking of the engagement (for me) with the pastor-in-training who said your pirouetting constituted a sin.

The love letters in longhand returned to sender.

The last text message from you less than the literature we always lived.

The embrace of storyless mediocrity.

The lustrous dull of it all to quote Bukowski.

The tourniquet you tied to the truth of who you really are still holds, tied 40 years ago, way too tight.