Before

Francis drives us to the museum where his painting of Chaco Canyon is displayed

on the same walls with Diego Rivera & Georgia O’Keefe.

The Tecate between his thighs tips forward but doesn’t spill when he downshifts, slows to a stop.

I un-suck my thighs from the vinyl, temporarily erase the slimy print with my palm,

anticipate the shifting gear, bump into his son’s hand. It caresses my fleshy inner thigh.

A smile rises from deep down and I lift my head toward Zebedee,

let the corners of myself lift and flutter,

glimpse the mural swathed between the red and brown brick—

A blue bird perched on a pointed-finger, the azul breast puffed out against the wind,

the little brown beak, up-turned and proud, the small legs wrap the tip affectionately.

In that moment, I stay silent. Let it be just mine.

The light turns green.

We wait while newspaper people interview Francis.

Outside the museum, I lay my head on Zeb’s stomach,

shut my eyes against the too-green grass under the poplar saplings

trying to shade us against the smooching sun,

fall asleep under the soft sky. Woven together like that.

Later

I am late, but having just woken from a sweaty nap,

I go slow up the stairs, try to cool from the outside-in.

On the third floor, a picture of a blue bird taped inside the shadow of a railing.

This one’s smaller and without a finger for a branch.

Captured there, in mid-air, perhaps about to fall past the paper. Into nothingness.

I tighten, close my eyes to erase the memories.

They knock into me—sharks bumping into prey.

Francis picks jalapenos in a windstorm.

A lone goose flies across the Boski, its downy breast an easy target,

Pots and pans ornament dead trees near the river—gong, reverberate. The hummingbirds scatter.

Zeb in paisley pajamas. My wet cheek smearing salt across the wood floor,

my body de-boned, unmoving—a pool of heaving flesh. Sunlight pierces at my back.

That night, I dream of blue bird mural. It’s small, blurred.

The different way I remember it.

and something I never noticed--blood in the corner.

Or is it a petal of paint?