1.
Somehow
I always end up
right back here,
twenty-two miles
into the heart of isolation:
The old place is nothing
but charred wood now,
all sooty
and cracked timber beams.
The roof is gone.
But the foundation is there,
as if the fire just decided
to take everything
from the waist up,
leaving the rest—
the lumbered floor,
ashen from exposure,
and the rotting support poles
thrust into the gnarled hide
of West Texas—
for the skunks and rattlers
and coyotes to claim.
I don’t get out here much anymore.
Truth is,
I stay as far away as possible,
if I can help it.
The two-way chatters
in my patrol car,
little squawks
and bursts of static,
impossible to understand
from where I am
in the yard,
and this dusty,
vagrant wind
doesn’t help either.
But that’s okay.
What I wish I couldn’t hear
is Danny yelling:
Daddy,
I can’t move my legs!
I’m sorry,
Daddy!
And I want to shout at him
that I ain’t really his daddy,
but he already knows that.
And he’s splashing around
like a minnow
down in the well.
I thought the drop
would’ve killed him,
but I was wrong.
I figured the water
might still be deep enough
to drown the life from him.
But it didn’t happen.
And he’s not alone down there,
but I don’t think he knows it yet.
There’s two others,
both Mexicans,
probably decomposed to hell
by now.
The stink carries
on up to the yard,
not like any thing
I care to think about—
not like the raunch of shit,
or even spoiled fruit,
as some have mentioned
about decay.
Just Death,
pure and simple,
unmistakable,
the stench of guts
burst open
and bile,
like the last thing in the world
someone would want to smell.
The very last thing
any fella would want
hanging in his nostrils.
Daddy—!
My stepfather said
he built this well,
but I know better.
My stepfather’s father told me
he’d built the well.
And I suspect that’s the whole truth.
The old man said
he’d gathered all the stones himself—
a month of quarrying around
in this nowhere of nowheres
to find enough rock to line a well.
And it’s a dandy too.
What my stepfather did do, though,
was add the little shingled awning,
sheltering the well
like it was a tiny house
or oasis or something.
He also put in the draw-pole,
so us kids and my momma
and him too
could crank the bucket
on down down down
to fetch water.
Except the bucket is gone,
so is most of the awning.
So is my stepfather
and my momma.
My older brother Kent,
he’s dead too—
skidded his Harley
into a bunch of mesquite trees.
That happened
when I was still working
as a highway patrolman,
and I was first on the scene,
found him tangled in gray limbs,
might as well have been
some tornado-blown scarecrow.
Jesus christ, Kent, I said,
what’ve you done now?
But he didn’t answer
because he was already on his way
to the hereafter.
My younger brother Taft,
he’s dead also.
But he died when we was babies
and I don’t remember much
about him.
And my older sister Alma,
she lives in Wichita Falls.
And Mr. R.C. Branches,
my natural father,
I never really knew him—
no good tramp of a man,
carrying his tuberculosis retch
to the grave.
So, as far as I know,
I am the last there is
of the Branches men.
Now I’m sitting with my spine
plumb against the well,
sucking on my third Camel.
Everything stretches away
from this spot—
the yard is just weeds
and more weeds,
with chunks of strewn and bent,
rust-absorbed metal bars
from a fallen swingset
poking through the scrub.
I think my legs are broke!
You still there?
Don’t go, please!
You still there?
I’m sorry!
And what do I tell my wife?
Danny sobs his head off,
but he ain’t flapping around
in the muck no more.
Stupid kid.
Sure enough,
I feel a right asshole
for doing him like this.
It wasn’t supposed to happen
this way at all.
But my job
as King County sheriff
is to encourage the law,
and that responsibility
don’t stop at my front door.
I loved that boy
as if he were my own,
and almost as much
as I love his momma.
I’m truly heartbroken
at this moment.
And this unforgiving,
sonofabitch breeze
stirring the dirt and leaves,
whistling
through the black frame
of the old house,
might as well be blowing
straight through me.
2.
The wind sweeps
around the well
from a brownish cloud
to the west,
an afternoon zephyr,
a spring gust.
This evening
it’ll most likely rage,
consuming the streets
of Claude
with dust
and sand
and throat-swelling air.
When I get home,
I’ll dampen a couple of towels,
roll them tight,
wedge them along the bases
of the front and back doors
to stop the filth
from drifting in
through the cracks.
I’ll bring the dogs inside.
Mary should have dinner ready
at six.
Tonight is beef burrito night.
It’s also
Funniest Home Videos night.
And I’m half starving,
so it’ll be three
or four beef burritos
for this fella,
extra cheese
and green chili,
thank you.
Then I’ll get reclined
with a Miller Lite.
And Mary will do
whatever it is she does
in the kitchen
after dinner.
And I plan to just laugh
at that program
until my side about pops.
It’s just the biggest kick
when those kiddies fall,
or some woman gets bucked
clean from a horse,
or someone leans over a table
to puff out candles
on a birthday cake
and slips face-first
into the white icing.
And I won’t explain to Mary
about Danny yet,
because I’ll say the boy was going
to his pal Auburn’s house
for some sort of homework
get-together.
I’ll tell her Danny
told me that.
Tomorrow
I’ll organize the search party.
Climbing from my spot
by the well,
I walk to the edge of the yard
to gaze at where the prairie widens
past my boot tips.
Imagine being on some beach
and staring out at an ocean
that floats a zillion chunks
of debris—
tons of scrub brush
and barrel cactuses
and mesquites—
into infinity.
Bits of grime
sprinkle over me,
pricking my cheeks
and forehead.
But I won’t shut my eyes
because there’s still so much
to take in and wonder at;
the prairieland is alive and wild
in the yellow-orange light,
horndog
with spring fever,
and the widening shadows
of late afternoon.
Taking two steps forward,
it seems that the weirdness
and surprise
of life
are pound into my brain here,
in the asshole of West Texas,
by the whole scattershot nature
of the scrub and critters—
things don’t crowd things
as in towns and cities
but are thrown about,
all whompyjawed,