Heroism
Before I saved you, I had to leave everything behind.
I packed my bags and told my father goodbye. “There’s work to be done Dad, a flip on Grandad’s shack,” I sighed. When he asked me about you, Anna, I felt a tightness form somewhere in my body before I said, “Anna’s mixed up in something bad.”
Still, I drove straight to your apartment and parked by that faulty streetlight, the one that’s burning out. I thought about all those times you tried to break free-free-free, some say it was a modern-day spell since he was known to dabble in tarot cards. Some say it was you, that you were hooked but I knew the truth, those blue-greenish bruises, the bloodshot eyes from a lack of sleep. All those times you tried to call me but the phone went dead and that day, the day, the, one time, you were finally able to reach through, and connect to me. You were crying when you said you were pregnant before the phone went click-click once again.
Now, “Tarot boy” was out on one of his “beer binges” at some slimy pub, the moment I offered you the escape to the horse farm, a place far away where the rush of the creek, the great, sharp, light of the moon would be our daily vibe, the place I would work hard with my bare hands to mold and shape the hut into something solid, real.
When you climbed up into my red Ford pick-up, your belly was a bit swollen underneath that tattered lace dress but your rootbeer-colored eyes were bright. And, I knew the silky row of stars above us, would be the pathway of light to your secret nest, our kingdom.
I packed my bags and told my father goodbye. “There’s work to be done Dad, a flip on Grandad’s shack,” I sighed. When he asked me about you, Anna, I felt a tightness form somewhere in my body before I said, “Anna’s mixed up in something bad.”
Still, I drove straight to your apartment and parked by that faulty streetlight, the one that’s burning out. I thought about all those times you tried to break free-free-free, some say it was a modern-day spell since he was known to dabble in tarot cards. Some say it was you, that you were hooked but I knew the truth, those blue-greenish bruises, the bloodshot eyes from a lack of sleep. All those times you tried to call me but the phone went dead and that day, the day, the, one time, you were finally able to reach through, and connect to me. You were crying when you said you were pregnant before the phone went click-click once again.
Now, “Tarot boy” was out on one of his “beer binges” at some slimy pub, the moment I offered you the escape to the horse farm, a place far away where the rush of the creek, the great, sharp, light of the moon would be our daily vibe, the place I would work hard with my bare hands to mold and shape the hut into something solid, real.
When you climbed up into my red Ford pick-up, your belly was a bit swollen underneath that tattered lace dress but your rootbeer-colored eyes were bright. And, I knew the silky row of stars above us, would be the pathway of light to your secret nest, our kingdom.
