Scarecrow

I see you shuffle across the parking lot,
hands in pockets, thin shoulders raised
like wings to your ear lobes,
your face angled down to see
the ground just before your shoes,
the fringe of your hair blowing from
under your stocking hat.

You’re thin now. So thin
the wind wraps your pants
against the poles of your legs,
your shirt blows in to the concave
of your stomach like a sail on
a ship going backwards.

I loved you once, and you loved me,
back when you took your meds
and accepted my kisses.  You were
the Scarecrow and I was the Cowardly
Lion. As long as we were still,
we were okay. No witches in the
sky; we never looked up. No yellow
brick road; we never left home.

But then a funnel cloud grew in
your mind, and I, everything,
became great and terrible, and your winged
monkeys began to shriek again in
the echoing caverns of your brain
and when you drew back the curtain
there was nothing there-no nothing at all.

Now it has been years, and I
sit in my car and watch you
talk to grackles and check coin returns
for change in the superstore parking lot.
I watch through my car windshield,
and I tell myself,“There’s no place like home.”

Ash Wednesday

I want to lick my thumb, and rub the ashes off
your perfect forehead. The priest who drew
it there probably licked his lips in anticipation
as you shuffled up the aisle, scuffing the church carpet
with your brand-new Vans, shuffling between grandmothers,
to have oil and ash smeared on your innocent
face by the trembling hands of a priest,
who probably forgot all his prayers
while gazing at the curve of your upper lip.