A Rough Moon




I miscalculated the number of people a two person tent can sleep.  Turns out it’s just one: that is, one teenaged daughter.  A skinny teenaged boy could have fitted along one edge, but I parked close enough to ensure not even a picture of a skinny teenaged boy could sneak into that tent.
I also miscalculated how many halves of a tired dad can sleep comfortably on the bench seat of a compact pickup truck parked in the woods.  Turns out it’s just one.  Because the top and bottom halves of most dads sleep in one piece everywhere but very severe car accidents, and because bench seats in modern pickup trucks are not really bench-shaped, and because I had difficulty routing the air hose from my CPAP machine around my folded body, I slept badly last night.
But hey, that’s camping.  It’s only supposed to be comfortable for the kids.




Aug. 25, 2013




Afternoons

It’s not a need for death,
but sleep:
without the cut
of waking up against the heat of
endless days;
us,
dragging broken lives
over tangled ill intent and lies.

Woken hours adore hot sun;
break bread,
share red wine,
sweat in folds of satin sheets,
glow in ink of short regrets
left tied
under scented pillows—
afternoons shed minutes
singly.

Cool rain diffuses day-end hues;
attempts sedation
with a fugue
but cleans and polishes the pain.

Drag me up the talus slope
so rocks can scrape away
my sins
as dry old skins of past regrets.
I’ll leave nights of
brambled moons,
wake in rough-hewn
afternoons;
walk in pain
but breath in billows.

For a friend.

Gavin W Sisk
May 2014