The Last Time You Were Here

The last time you were here You were driving on highway five in California Trying not to smell the cities of cattle Fetid and groaning with institutional dharma. He was riding shotgun And you wanted him clean of it. “Look over here,” you said, pointing to the birds, to the west, to the ocean. But he turned and saw And you could not offer an explanation. You stopped in a small town Hoping the flowers would distract him. You found a salon and got a hair cut Which made you look like your sister. You left the hair on the cutting room floor. Over lunch, you told him about the time You were on the fifty-first floor Washing your hands at a sink This was when you were in a wheelchair The bathroom had no walls And the drop was a roll of the dice away. He said, “You were lucky. But why do you take such risks? Stay here next time.“ And later, after mouths full of chicken cooked in wine with artichokes and olives, “Did you save your hair? It’s good luck to save your hair.” You kissed him goodbye and got back into the car and kept driving south Cresting a hill, there was the snow shimmering off the mountain Larger than life Larger than Hollywood So large it might be all a dream Or a film Or the afterlife And you turned around, back to town, To convince him to come with you, That this time it didn’t have anything to do with luck. Nerissa Nields November 14, 2012