by Jeff Halbert
Before the first scratch of light,
I lace my shoes & stretch
my muscles in order—
hamstrings, calves, groin—
& run. I run with long,
purposeful strides
watching the moonlit asphalt
stream under me. I’ve memorized
the names of these streets:
left on Long Gun, Mission,
Noyes beyond the bend.
I recognize the cars—some parked
& gutted, the rusted entrails
huddled in the driveways.
I know the houses too. As a boy,
I stood under the empty frames
listening to my voice echo,
name-calling. I’ve fidgeted
at the kitchen tables
as half-drunk fathers berated me.
I know which windows
keep lit all night
for woken children swimming
down the hallways. I know
the surfaces on which I run,
oil stains & scraped curbs
& manhole covers playing
home-base. I know how to quench
the urge of getting away,
the balance & the order
of stepping forward,
here to there, breathing repetitiously.
Cold sweat. Rhythm.
*
Am I ahead of myself yet—
or worse, falling behind,
legs & arms flailing to catch up?
Am I outside my mortal box
building & rebuilding myself,
lungs burning with air?
Or have I arrived
without my knowing, the man
I imagined myself to be
before the gates flung open
& my running?
*
From my Sunday house full of cracks
with gunpowder in the attic,
I slam all doors as I go,
I board the windows tornado-tight.
I shatter my only lantern
against imaginary trees.
My footprints evaporate behind me.
When dead faces block my path,
I stomp their manipulated smiles
with my Nike air-pumped shoes.
I have you. I’m satisfied
with leaving & never returning.
My umbilical chain unreels
spliced with razor-sharp links.
*
Run when you want to.
Run when the woman you sleep with
wakes up shining.
Run before the wounds are freshly opened
& the gardeners rush in.
Run from bedrooms thick with cigarette smoke,
ice-cubes rattling in a glass,
hospital beds & unshaved priests,
& torrential voices that resonate through walls.
Run like a child holding a pinecone in your hand.
Run alone, as fast as your legs
let you, in a field at night
tripping over the folds you never see.
*
I’m closing in on destination,
closure. I sense it—
the slick gravity of an icicle,
or the punch of the ocean
as the swells collapse.
I’m not scared of what’s to come.
The rivers & estuaries
coursing through my body
move me forward. I sense it—
directive, the gelling of a moment.
Like wind & water filling up the eye.
Like stopping.