Labrador
—for Adam

I still sleep with one arm
tucked under, Heisman

straight. Is this all
we were? Bodies that knew

to keep another warm.
Even the silver bar behind

your teeth had manners.
I remember all the things

I've forgotten about you
although I promised otherwise—

oil on the pillow
like a mongoose, bare feet

in winter. Holes in the crotch
of your jeans but three farms

for my horseshoes. Frozen
eggs and no leftovers.

You walked right out
of your sandals—happiness

a straight line, a goal,
hips wide as a woman's.

How I forgot when we met.
But I can still taste Nat Shermans

on your breath weighted
with Christmas lights and snow,

toenails jack-knifed like treetops.
Did I not see your scratched legs

in bed, the bus pulling away?
My shoulders just wouldn't fit

into your aching,
overgrown hands.

Copyright © 2009 Brandi Homan All rights reserved
from Hard Reds
Shearsman Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission