Woe Grace

The sly smiles and boundless warmth.
I'm sometimes thankful for memories.
We talked once about pastiche after
sneaking up behind me in the tobacco
aisle at the grocery. When I turned
to look, you hid. I cannot be held
responsible for what has happened to
any of us. Not for boots and mistresses
and country music or skin covered with
ink stories ones like legends. My skin
raised and red from worry. My hair
brittle and broken. Everything else is
Picasso's "Guernica." Not for fellatio-
fell-flat you said you liked watching.
I became a mother bear or at least
a protective serpent. Look, I thought
I saw someone I knew. My life flashed
before my eyes. Things shook.