jay-hawks

the first girl I ever kissed is dead.
she dies, she drowns, in an ambulance
twice, when they try,
to recuperate her sallow lungs,
the purple hubris of her skin
denies them the sickle celebration
of rebellion, revival.
it took four months for that to be the
story
only for before, the dark, wet memories of
a man stomping a stair-well in disbelief,
the wife distraught, the best friend on her own,
were only distended lessons in truth;
a PhD thesis on feminine grief
(I'll deal with this doctorately thank you)
so there's this sleeping, some voice
a stand-up of the self, in the round
he says - make up your mind on this one
they'll love you as much as I do.
that white horse charge
the still in bed change,
you near, you say things.
my dear
my dear, never
discovered as winter melts, boys competing
for the
sun years, go by, waiting
for a ring (where some snow melt was)
but you won't see me laughing,
those setting suns
those were the
eyes of Sarah Jane