Rick Bursky
On Some Nights I Was Her Disciple,
On Others She Was Mine
for Becky
She danced for tips in a bar across from an oil refinery. I drove a tow truck.
These were the years after the army and before college.
We shared a pay-by-week apartment. We were phobias.
We were condensation on a window waiting for a finger to write.
There’s something satisfying about coming home with grease on your hands, I told her.
As I shaved, she sat on the toilet and asked, can I pee in front of you?
Most breakfasts were a slice of toast folded over bacon or a fried egg; coffee, black.
You never make me laugh, she said, standing at the sink
scrubbing stains out of silk panties and bra. Nights
I practiced telling jokes while sitting alone in my truck.
She made small circles in the palm of my hand with her thumb while we watched television.
There was dartboard on the bedroom wall, sometimes we played from bed.
I was never sure if the money she gave me to buy work boots was a loan.
There’s something satisfying about coming home with grease on your heart, she told me.
We were a continent of dust. The nights held us in their teeth.
Wasps and stars swarmed around us, we couldn't tell the difference.
“Let’s Become a Ghost Story,” BOA Editions, 2020