M. Kowalczyk-Fisher

Buying a Forty for Joseph

The smell of hard engine idles
mix with the huffs of lightning—
no rain as of yet.

I need oil for my car.
I need so much more.

Joseph, like a broken light in front of a liquor store
still shines in my mind, uneven, buzzing—
forgotten must days, though

I pull over to buy him a forty
watch the ozone pull beads from a brown bottle.

Have you wondered what would happen
or where you’d be, if you weren’t dead?
I have. Twisting off the cap

to feel cold beer coat my throat.
Every passing headlight catches on the glass neck,
condensation wets my hand and face, cracks of lightning
try to speak with me.

I realize
I love Joseph.
I love him as much
as the night I punched
his jaw, told him
he’d die drunk.
I love his homemade tattoos.
His dirty hoodie,
his punk-rock pants
the bottoms sweeping rain water
on his sockless feet.
I love his gnashed mouth,
the anger he kept from us.

I love him like fireflies love lightning—
like night loves the headlights of my car
and music is made better
by clicks of drops and the swipe after
the windshield. It keeps you focused
on what can be wiped away.