"On My Back Porch"

on my back porch

through the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass door

there is a weathered bottle of Guinness

the frayed edges of the label

marking the months since its abandonment

from soft hands and mouth forever foreign to my own

in the morning, the sunlit glint

refracts midnight brown glass

the original sin of my every sunrise

the thumbprint on the Mona Lisa

the first dent in a new car

the D in algebra

the hit-and-run body in the woods

we never talk about

keeping the scar of that night

the conversation forever fresh

her body

his

and my oblivious complicit silence

in the years hence,

when I think back about this home

I will remember the southern view

the sound of birds in the morning

bees around dusk

the first soft snow of winter

the creak of livingroom floorboards

and this bottle

refracting sunrise into my eyes

a tangible manifestation of sin

morning,

after morning,

after morning

I am not writing this poem

to ask for her forgiveness

it’s too late for that

nor my own absolution

undeserved

I am writing this poem

so if you ever visit my home

come wandering in to my back door

you do not make the mistake of picking up this bottle

it is not forgotten

instead imagine

it is bolted to the wood

nailed down with cold sin

impossible to lift

impossible to forget

impossible to forgive