Fugitive Avenues

Someone

painted the mirror black, pulled the curtain over

and unplugged the lamp on the nightstand.

The bed is empty, the sheets rucked and twisted,

the shadowed dents in the pillow

little points of annihilation I am unable to look away from.

The sound of water in the pipes; I close my eyes and it becomes

a stream, the creek down the small hill in the backyard,

past the briar and fern, the muddy bank we used to

slide down on bare bottoms into the shocking chill

of the water, then run back up it slipping and stumbling,

grabbing at each other's ankles and waists to pull

ourselves down into the mud again, to slide again

into the creek and clean ourselves only to race up again;

at the top of the bank, we could see the top of this house

over the arches of blackberry, far at the other end of the lawn,

fading yellow paint and white trim, a Mansard roof,

the oriel window behind which is this bed.

Once, a strangling vine was looped around my ankle;

we were laughing too hard, I couldn't stand up for the mud,

for the trapping tug of the green grip, our bodies naked and

filthy (I had mud in my hair, my mother's chagrin crashed against

her light heart and shattered; she laughed as she drew the bath for us)

writhing, not even trying to stand, now just seeing how absolutely

dirty we could make ourselves. Finally the vine snapped and we both

tumbled, arms grasping each other like trying to embrace a pillar

of oil, head over hip straight into the water, plunging beneath

the surface, the shock we should have expected forcing our mouths

open, the creek flowing straight into us, over us, tearing the mud

from our skin and sloughing it away downstream,

scouring our throats and then each of us pulling the other up

to the daylight, to air, laughing and coughing the creek back

into itself. We helped each other up the slick bank this time,

still falling but no longer wallowing, my hands pushing the

small of your back, your hands pulling my wrists, finally to the top

of the bank; we looked back at the creek, then at the house ahead,

walked forward through the brambles, thorns pricking our

gooseflesh like a slavecatcher's goad. We ran, barefeet crushing

the dead grass underfoot, little blades of tan straw sticking

to our shins and heels, beneath the scalding sun that baked

the mud to our bodies like armor, to the porch and into the kitchen,

where my mother turned from the stove to see two naked, muddy

boys and wrung her hands as her eyes slid up to the ceiling.

Don't move, you two, she mock-scolded and went to the cellar,

dragging up the stairs a large zinc tub, filling the whole house

with an unholy clatter. But we've spent all day in the water,

I had tried telling her, but you two laughed against me and she filled

the tub and shooed us in. The brambles scratches stung in the hot water,

I saw you wince; our bodies disappeared in the water, our legs slithering

against each other like eels. Later, sitting on the edge of this bed,

looking at our reflection in the now-black mirror, watching me watch myself

and you laying on your back reading a book, I felt a small stab and lifting

my shirt found a thorn in my side, just above my hipbone, and instead

of pulling it out, I pushed it in deeper and watched the scarlet trickle of blood

run down to the waistband of my underwear; I looked up and saw you

watching me and I was suddenly very ashamed and I stood to leave.

You reached out and said my name and I turned back, and

this empty bed yawned and the blackness between stars swallowed us both.