Laura Palmer Graduates
By Amy Woolard
I can’t love them if their hands aren’t all tore up
From something, guitar strings, kitchen knives & grease
Burns, heaving the window ACs onto their crooked old
Sills come June. Fighting back. That porchlight’s browned
Inside with moth husks again & I can’t climb a ladder
To save my life, i.e., the world spins. Even when it’s lit,
It’s half ash. Full-drunk under a half-moon & I’m dazed
We’re all still here. Most of us, least. For the one & every
Girl gone, I sticker gold stars behind my front teeth so
I can taste just how good we were. I swear I can’t
Love them if they can’t fathom why an unlit ambulance
On a late highway means good luck. I hold my cigarette-
Smoking arm upright like I’m trying to keep blood
From rushing to a cut. What’s true is my shift’s over &
I’m here with you now & I’m wrapped up tight
On the steps like a top sheet like the morning paper
Before it’s morning. Look up & smile. What does it matter
That the stars we see are already dead. If that’s the case well
Then the people are too. Alive is a little present I
Give myself once a day. Baby, don’t think I won’t doll
Up & look myself fresh in the eyes, in the vermilion
Pincurl of my still heart & say: It’s happening again.
Source: Poetry (September 2019)