Damien Echols

FIRST LOVE

In those days you were something
felt but not seen
as you handed me love letters
written in dead languages.

The chain link fence behind me
made cold diamonds on my back
and your head was on my shoulder
with only one breath between us.

Your hair against my face
smelled like woodsmoke and chocolate,
your lust was raw and new,
as jagged and dangerous as rocks beneath the waves.

Now I’m trapped here like a ghost
haunting places that no longer exist,
feeding on frost and hummingbirds
during long November nights.

__________

UNCLE CHARLIE

My best friend’s uncle
used to tell us stories
about life in Vietnam.
He smoked hand-rolled cigarettes
that turned his fingers yellow
and sipped whiskey straight from the bottle
as he explained how they’d used chocolate bars
to lure the children to landmines.
He chuckled while describing
the way the “gooks” exploded,
but told us we were too young
to hear about the whorehouses
he’d visit on his days off.

–from Rattle #28, Winter 2007

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