Scarlett

 

I stumble twice on my way home

From the unplanned horseback adventure.

Cary and I are late to supper, and the sun

Slips down around the rows of pine trees,

grasping at the sky,

as if to catch the sands pouring from an hourglass.

 

Cary wipes his nose on a grimy hand

And tells me that he’s going to relax.

He rests on a tree stump that we use to cut firewood

When we listen to my Granddaddy’s ham radio.

 

I move ahead, thinking of how I’d

Tell my Granddaddy that we broke

Scarlett’s leg, and now carry with us

his heart, his eyes, and his judgement.

 

Cary huffs once behind me, and my ears prickle

To the sound of iron and steel sliding over one another.

The retort of gunfire blasts across the sky. He is practicing,

Wrists sore from the blowback of the snub-nosed revolver.

The forest is alive with squawks and bellows as animals

Dance away from the music of his firearm.

I shoulder my pack, heavy with memories.

We harvested from the still waters that our horses drank. 

Cary is right to delay his journey home.

2

Cedar trees spew pollen onto the front of the Ford,

And seek to undo all the progress I’ve made

Washing the windshield for the past ten minutes.

My tiny hands scrabble at the cracked glass,

Soap wringing the water across them.

I am home, and the day is arriving.

Grandaddy walks by and says to get inside

And clean up.

We’re going to church today.

I dress myself in a blue oxford and khakis.

I don’t know how to tie a tie, so my Grandmama does it for me.

She smells like moth balls and old people perfume, but she

Sneaks a candy in my hands after she’s done

And I pretend we both like Toffee.

The pastor grabs my shoulder and applies too much pressure.

He labors astride a bible filled with notes and highlighters

To remind himself how to be the man that can ignore

The son he lost before I was born.

I smile at him as he ruffles my hair,

And begin the performance,

Where the world focuses on Him in the pulpit, in our sanctuary

That could use a little less dialogue and a lot

More air conditioning.

Grandaddy tore my backside off for losing his horse.

I sit awkwardly, trying not to crack the scab that traces

Down my right butt cheek.

Cary is home. He got to leave early.

When the sermon is done, we all stand.

My mouth is filled with spit and grape juice.

They pretend it’s wine so they can pretend its blood.

Dad is waiting outside with the Ranger that I washed

This Sunday morning. He doesn’t go into the building.

Grandaddy nods at him then steers me to the bed.

I lay down so the police officers won’t see me in the back of the truck.

3

I pull okra from my teeth, grasping

Onto the gums like burrs.

Grandaddy is proud of this year’s harvest

And thinks if it sells well

We won’t have to cut lumber.

I drag my teeth across the now bleeding sore.

The okra tastes like sawdust and guilt

But I chew it up and swallow it

Because its what my Mother

Would do.

4

Cary and I don’t ride anymore.

Grandaddy passed and Grandmama

Gave up the property in Washington,

So now we push pencils

And dream of saddle sores.

Scarlett is a memory fading

And exists only in the meandering

Canals of my mind,

I ask Cary if he thinks about Topher, his horse,

As much as I do Scarlett.

Grandaddy gave both of us a friend, after all.

But Cary doesn’t answer.

Kentucky is a long way from Washington.

5

Grandaddy is furious with Cary.

He drags him outside and takes his gun back

And points his bleached finger back in his face

And asks why the horse is dead.

I didn’t tell him it was my fault.

That I rode too hard in the trees

And didn’t give the horses or my brother

Room to jump over that dead tree

That fell on the ruins of the slave house 

two years back.

They all fell, and both horses lashed

Against one another in mortal fear

And Scarlett broke leg scratching in the mud,

And Cary panicked and said we had to put him down.

So he turned me around to face the trees

And then two quick clicks were all

That took my best friend from me.

Scarlett was black and fast and liked

To lick sugar cubes out of my little hand.

But he couldn’t lick sugar cubes when

A bullet was lodged in his right eye socket.

Cary missed and had to fire again.

We didn’t tell Grandaddy that part, either.

Cary comes in at supper time and washes his hands,

still covered with gore.

Grandaddy was happy we did the right thing and brought

Organs home.

He believes in the old stories,

Where men who consumed the hearts

Of their horses to gain their strength.

I think of Scarlett’s flesh squishing between my teeth,

Softer than okra,

And vomit against the garden fence

And go inside to shower and not eat supper.

6

Summer is coming. I ride Scarlett down his favorite trails

And bounce in rhythm to the shape of the forest.

Rows of sugarcane whip past just outside the boughs

And I reach a hand out to slow Scarlett down.

I daydream of my brother behind me, and pretend

To ignore the pistol tucked in the back of his jeans.

We both breathe heavily, and my legs are sore.

I fall out of the saddle and grab a cane.

It tastes like sweet tea and bamboo shoots,

And I know peace.

Summer is coming. I ride Scarlett down his favorite trails.