Bayou Justice
The rattle of heavy chain. Scent of it,
blood and iron, under the sweetness
of toasted tobacco, of spice and sweat
and drug store cologne. The thing
we came here to do is lolling in and
out, bobbing head like clover in the
wind. He looks up, face smeared with
blood and black grease. Blue eyes not
comprehending. The airboat rocks
underneath us as we pass the cigarette
around.
"For the girl," says the fat one, sending
a long brown stream of chew juice into
the bayou. "For your sister."
I watch them hoist him up. He's making
some noise under that silvery duct tape.
Not enough, though. Padre and the
fat man heave him overboard, and
he's gone. Swallowed up by the muck
and the water that has no memory.
They sit still for a minute. Finish the
cigarette, spit more streams of chew.
I watch the bubbles rise up, gemstones
in the dark.
It won't bring you back. I'll never hear
your throaty laugh again, or give you a
noogie or hug you tight enough to
squeeze the air out of both of us. But,
as the huge fan kicks on and the boat
lurches forward, I look at dad's army
buddies (near strangers to me before
your funeral) looming larger than
cypress trees in the milky moonlight --
I realize, we got one of them.
And that's a good start.