Dig Ten Graves Read Free Page A

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         Will leer and tell me the truth, the ugly truth
         That all of this will be carried away
         And that in the end, nothing belongs to me
         I didn’t look at the comments and critiques from the other poets.  I don’t think I could have stood it if someone tore it apart, critiqued her form or content, reduced it to an exercise. 

         I see her at the club, about three weeks after she’s told me about the dream.  She’s dyed her hair black.  It looks good on her.  She doesn’t even mention the horrible thing I did, and it dawns on me that she’s hopped up on heroin.  We find our way to a table far in the back, away from the lights, and make out for awhile and I ask her how she’s doing.
         She nods and says, “Good, I’m doing good.”  She smiles and it looks real.  She says, “I’m thinking about going to California.  I have a friend out there who maybe can get me a job.”
         I tell her that’s great and I wish her luck.  I go to get a drink, run into an old girlfriend at the bar, and never go back to Charon’s table. 
         That’s the last time I see her.

         So now I shut off my computer again and stand up.  My back aches and my eyes hurt.  I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror and see a man who doesn’t really look familiar.  He’s got lines around his eyes and his Sunday stubble is graying and scraggly.  He’s got a receding hairline and the beginnings of a double-chin.
         I push Charon off me and she almost falls off the sofa and I nearly laugh, she looks so surprised.  I pull on my pants and head for the door.  Charon, cool collected Charon, never any emotion, has a stunned stupid look on her face.  I storm out of the house and to my car, parked in the street.  I pop the trunk and find the black extension cord I remembered was there, about fifteen feet of it.
         Back in the house.  She starts to say, “What are you doing?” but only gets the first word out before I grab her by her thin, frail arm and drag her into the bedroom.  She sees the cord and her wide eyes get even wider and she starts shaking her head and saying, “No, no, no,” but I don’t listen, I drag her into the bedroom and throw her down on the floor.  I look down at her and all I want, all I want to see, is her broken.
         I force her against the wooden post of her bed and tie her securely and she’s weak, she doesn’t fight much at all.  But she cries the entire time.
         I take the Darth Vader figure and the Christopher Lee lobby card and the Mr. Spock plate.  I take the Papa Smurf and the Elvis album cover and even the stupid little mouse.  I take as much as I can carry. 
         There is no why.  I just do it, because her dream has sparked something in me, something cold and nasty, and I want to.  I take it all, carry it all away, and leave her crying and struggling to get free.
         And now the old man I see in the mirror clenches his eyes shut and shakes his head, sharply.  He forces it down, forces it back into the cage, back to the place where it never happened.
         And he gets to work fixing that clog in the sink.

     Bleed Out

         From my blind up in the tree, I see Buck and Doe come into the clearing, hard to miss because of their bright orange vests. They are talking, which is no good for hunters to do, but good for me because I wouldn’t have heard them coming other-ways.
         Buck says to Doe, “I’m proud of you, Margaret, I really am. After all this time, so many times I’ve asked--”
         Doe cuts him off, laughing-like. “I always wanted to go hunting with you, you know that. It’s just time, you know, finding the time. And I’ll be honest with you, I’m scared to death.”    
         Buck is laughing-like too, now. He says, “Scared of what? A deer can’t hurt you, I promise.”
         “No, it’s not that. It’s just… I’m