That Day...

according to Pinal County 
that day 
I got lost on my way to church
and
my ASU English professor sang
Amazing Grace
with our parents (even Amadello)
3 times
that day
Orlando bore the rings
and
we said we do
(and we did)....
that day
you talked and talked and talked
as Orlando shed his little grey tux 
and ran shirtless through the hall
while hooligans outside 
“just married” our car with potato salad
cold cuts, cookies and slices of cheese
but we didn’t dance 
(it was against our religion)...
that day
I hoisted you over my shoulder
and packed you out of there
your lithe little frame 
wriggling under your silky white dress
nose buried in your intoxicating perfume
as you staged mock protest
but we had waited long enough...
that day
for the red heart, silver moon, gold star glitter
that stuck to us
months after
thirty years after
our honeymoon...
that day
that Pinal County says

 never happened.

On a Denny's Napkin

I wrote you a poem once
on a Denny's napkin
because you
visited me in jail
in the mental hospital
even 

in the halfway house

I made something of my life
as broken as I  was am
and I feel felt grateful

but I've always been confused

you beat me
you beat my mother black and blue
you piece of shit.

I was in my 40's when my  defenses
of denial and suppressed memory let me see
that she didn't run into a clothes line pole
in the middle of the night like you said
your fists made the fat lips and raccoon eyes
staring fearfully back at me that traumatic morning
when I brought you breakfast in bed

my sister says you beat me too
with a belt buckle
on the side of the highway
but I  don't remember any pain
just her screaming at you to stop
she was  traumatized
and I never thought it was that bad
you hit me in the nose in third grade
knocked me down in the mud
you hit me with a cowboy boot
and a can of orange juice
and probably worse 

so
I beg my son's forgiveness
every time I see him

for being like you.

all I've ever wanted  needed is
to sort it all 
figure out what happened
because there's still this kid in me
that needs protected
and I'm in my sixties 

I don't want to go to the grave
as this confused broken child
who doesn't trust his own feelings

but I wrote a poem once
on a Denny's napkin
spring semester of
my senior year at ASU

you visited me in jails
in the mental hospitals

in the half-way houses
by God

you were there for me

and I shed
tears of gratitude on that Denny's napkin
from eyes at the end
of a seven year drought. 

It was an epiphany.

So is this.