walk all over her.
The yoga mat had a reason
to be spongy or leaky as she 
filled with southwest Oregon rain.

Even the boy in an old pickup knows
to be a writer is to be always
writing, 

not running.
She knew she was at risk.
River beds become stone beds.
There would be no more memories besides the  ones 
she was pretending to remember.
She knew her brain would forget— on purpose, 
she said, cut ties, she said.
She would forget the words. Even the ones 
she had not allowed herself to say yet.

Next to the boy with the pickup,
she would lie awake at 4 am
thinking only of the yoga mat.
How it stayed soaked…
refusing to dry despite/
to spite the California sun.

She would listen
and listen.
In a rage the man with the pickup would say
he was tired of always saying he didn’t know
what he wanted in life.

Giddy, she said, sometimes
you are an asshole.

She knew he would never say
something so honest to her, she knew
he was younger than the truck.
She thought she’d die 
without thoughts in her head
if she did not write them down.

She would listen,
he would deny her.
Was it so much to ask
to be cared for?
In winter, no less,
so far from herself.

She wondered how 
the man handing her a bagel insisted on 
telling her she was beautiful 5 times over?
Why the man with the pickup would say
he loved her face. And how dare the man who loved 
horses whisper to her how he wanted to make her 
feel	good?
She listened and they
leave her to dry in the big sky.

Out there she’d remember the idea
she’d always wanted to remember. 
Joy.
She just needed someone to remind her 
what was missing.
She would listen.