HELLGRAMMITE
(Anna filled a milk jug with beer
and we hid in the trees
finding deer runs to where the white sand glowed beneath the power lines.)
There is a fish with her own eggs
In her mouth. I often imagine
Stroking its throat. It is a woman.
Calcium of spurs in her thighs
When she sighs. Where the head shop used
To be—over a few of these hills,
Grease all over the plastic and
Gears, worn sprockets, the smell of
Gasoline clinging to the curtains,
A box of corn flakes resting beside
A tire pump on a utility spool—
Dragonflies swarm a pond choked with
Weeds. The oars make a plummeting sound
Because the pond has no floor but
Isn’t all that deep. I bought her some
Flip flops. I thought her kisses tasted
Like cherry-flavored rolling papers.
The store was now an apartment,
And the screen door banged shut for lack
Of hydraulics. It was pretty
Much what I used to call perfect.
The way Anna kept holding my feet
In her hands. Massive drums of menthol
Blazed in my dreams. Tooth, with a nerve
Dangling. These bolted hard into
Place on a kind of conveyor belt
For sticks of gum. I left that job. I took
A Civil service exam. The
Pencil bled all over the paper. I bought
Milk and popcorn and couldn’t wait to
Get home. I sat watching the buzzards.
Fur coats all around, balding, hobbled,
Mouths slick with tripe. I wanted her salt.
She said the pond was the opposite
Of heaven. It was a hundred degrees
Outside. The window ticked, a second hand.
I had hellgrammites, new fish hooks . . .
Then I watched the glass crack, like a thought,
like voltage. Residual torque.
Her voice like a chemical, a sur-
Reptitious kiss. She had cuts on both
Arms. Deer breathed in the orchard at dusk.
Anna’s fingers spread like a wheel sailing
Into an open garage. She’d sit
On the vinyl and the sweat in her
Skin made the room smell like burnt wood.
Afterwards, prostrate on the plastic,
She crossed her ankles. We were both sleepy.
The landscape was a lament with four
Borders. The glass hissed like an aspen. I
Cracked the gun barrel over my knee.
I could see at the other end what
Might be heaven. The light splashed in my
Face and I started. I thought of the
Hellgrammites as something keeping time.
They turned in the cup like a womb
Growing legs. A stopwatch for desire.
I liked how her underwear was always
Filthy. She lifted the shotgun.
There was a sound in the magazine
Like a death sentence lodging in
And then dissolving inside a blind
Prisoner’s throat. Anna placed the gun
In the middle of the sofa.
It floated there like the boat we
Used now on hot afternoons. Who
Should be working, I remember
She said once. I thought, Somebody
Else, I’m fishing. She tied her rod
To the bow with a shoelace and dove in.
The water was smooth and green, but what I
Remember is her body opening.
I remember the way the gas tank
Locked into place on the black frame
Of the motorcycle and how
Perfect that felt. It was like falling
Forever. It wasn’t the opposite
Of anything. Under the boat the
Water yawned like eternity. Her
Curls dragged circles on my bare skin.
Sometimes she moaned in my ear riding
On top, “I love this Harley.” Put the
Gun in the grass, I said about
A year later. She kept leaving butts
On the windowsills. The bike, the boat,
The starlings like doppelgangers
Screaming obscenities out of the
Eaves-troughs all August. She kicked her legs.
I could see the world in her eye. I
Could see the hurricane of all
Those body parts and a stream of oil
Trailing behind her. Minnows pushing
Through her teeth. Tines on a fork, the blond
Glass falling like rain. A vulture
Spreads its enormous wings. She sank.
