An Alchemy of Words

To Dennis

"To Dennis"

It wasn't really that long ago, I guess,

when you and I last heard the fighter jets

and stared up at those

white-walled storage tanks looming

like pale and bloated corpses

among the pines.

"Yeah, effin' Satan's peppermints,"

I told you, feeling brave,

and you laughed, wheeling your bike

up to the sandpit so you could toss it

off the edge.

Your laughter was more nervous

when there were six of us,

crammed into the doghouse,

telling ghost stories, me stuffed into

the dog's little attic place

'cause I was the smallest

and 'cause I liked to fall down

and scare you in the dark.

Remember when I took the dog to your place

and forgot him 'cause I decided to stay the night?

He shivered and scratched at your front door,

too loyal or too stupid to walk the half-block home.

You would cuss him out when he

chased you down the hill in winter

or as you walked me home, shivering

after falling through the creek.

You dared me to run across spring ice

(to walk, to stand, to jump)

and I never got my five bucks

even after I was wet and dripping and cold.

You and I busted my living room window

with a lump of snow the year we

built ourselves a quinzee in the front yard,

using our snow shovels to slide off the roof

and onto the mounded snow.

And then, in the summer, we dug that hole

deep in my backyard

(to protect us from the bombs)

before Mama told us to fill it in

'cause the house was only rented.