I dig in my heels
Let us suppose you are a self covered in the gritty stillness of your hometown, overwhelmed by an adolescent longing for anything beyond the present tense. And this self is connected also to your self that is kneeling on a twister mat carpeting the fort in your grandma’s pear tree where the fruit and leaves are decaying in the shade. Which is connected to your self hiding at the top of the rocket slide after you gave all your pocket change to some kid so you could look at his old playboy. Which is connected to your frightened self that watches in fascinated horror while a highschool football player walks around the bonfire hoisting a coyote head on a long stick, half-skinned and dripping. Which is also, somehow, connected to your self that longs to be tangled up in an endless and irresponsible kiss. Which is connected to your self in a ring of people surrounding two boys circling each other, sweating and cussing, feeling a collaborative yearning for someone to throw a punch, for someone to finally do something. Which is inevitably connected to this self longing in reverse for a moment you now know was never going to happen because you were given a perfectly constructed thing and spent your lifetime disassembling it in an effort to understand how it worked.