Primavera (2)

By Victoria Lynne McCoy

I’ve hidden every newspaper that might tell me who he was—

whiskeyed ache of a man: all gape
and stagger and gravel
throat. Let me know him
by anything but name.

His more and more, what hallelujahs
spill from his slick pores.
What neglectful god

let him swallow the ghosts
at the bottom this once?

Let him shatter

the abacus of endless days, drink his veins
bearable and forgot to dampen
that brass clash of keys singing him home?

His take and take. He takes
the road he swears he knows by heart.

Did he believe himself to be
flying along his boundless highway,
the ghosts he hadn’t made yet
approaching?

Please

leave him weightless
on my tongue and let me forgive
only what I have a name for.

Washington Square Review (Fall 2015 issue)

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