Woodsmoke and Wine

Drunk, she leaned backward

against the bar of the Crow’s Nest,

ready to topple over.

Behind her,

a dusty bottle of Drambuie

in on the shelf,

last opened 35 years ago,

a final snifter

for the defrocked priest,

who gulped down the honey elixir,

walked to the Rogue River Bridge,

jumped off.

Crabs carried out justice.

A year later,

resurrected as crab Louie.

Paunchy tradesmen surrounded her.

She wore attire suited

for chopping firewood.

Her husband,

the local Elvis impersonator,

wasn’t around,

back home,

hospice,

cirrhosis.

I walked in after driving 327 miles

and delivering a eulogy

for a man who worshiped ospreys.

She saw me and lit up.

I saw her.

To quote

“Good Vibrations,”

I don’t know where / but she sends me there

She announced me as a writer.

The tradesmen didn’t give a shit,

floated away to cheap lagers,

stories about salmon

and burn piles.

I hadn’t seen her in several years.

We caught up.

She asked me where I was staying.

A motel in town.

I wanted to ask her to follow me,

or better yet, I’d drive.

Right now.

I didn’t.

I’ll never forget the time

she sat down at my table

in the Sea Star,

grasped my arms,

crushing the corduroy coat,

said she loved

my book about

Oregon Coast dive bars.

She was in it.

She didn’t even read books,

but I’d left a copy

in the Sea Star

and she’d read it

sitting at the bar

drinking pint glasses

of swill Chardonnay.

She lived in the woods,

golden hair never bound,

somewhere east of Cape Sebastian,

inherited property

from a rich mother in LA,

now dead.

She made art

from nature,

concocted potions from plants,

drank,

did drugs

with Elvis,

sometimes building

a driftwood fort alone on Pistol River,

or hunting for agates.

Every day,

Crow’s Nest for breakfast,

Sea Star for lunch,

never for meals.

They’d been pulled over

a dozen times in Gold Beach,

always got off.

He a high school gridiron legend.

She, the hair.

I escorted her

to her red, rusted wreck

of a pickup.

I wanted to say more,

but didn’t.

She drove away.

The husky and I hit the beach.

Afterward, I stopped at the grocery store.

I saw her coming out

carrying a box of wine

and a bag of groceries.

We met at her pickup.

She stashed the items.

We were standing face to face.

Customers passed.

She started crying,

said she was an alcoholic

and ready to lose the property

because of back taxes.

I told her I loved her

and gave her a hug.

She hugged me harder,

disengaged,

said she loved me

with a slight slur.

We kissed.

I tasted woodsmoke and wine.

I touched her sternum,

my fingers incinerated.

People stared.

She was known in town.

I asked her to come

back to the motel.

We’d start a new life.

Her old one was almost dead.

We’d bury it together,

start over in our 50s.

It can be done.

She couldn’t do it.

I gave her my number,

call if she changed her mind.

She didn’t call that night.

She has never called.