Joe always drank too much,
smelled like Blatz.
Labored in machine shops he loathed
and yelled at the dog for no reason.
He showed me hammered soft metals
turn case-hardened;
Impenetrable as steel at the surface,
malleable like gold beneath.
Terry showed me
the heart is the slowest healing
organ in the body.
Fought in Nam,
didn’t mind telling the stories
between long drags of reefer.
Told Scruffy di di mau in the kitchen
and burned bacon black.
Cancer in lungs,
he sunk into the hospital bed
like a dying sun
pulling us near.
Penny drove slow as molasses,
rarely watched the road
while she bit at nails
and smoked away the nerves.
Drifting over the yellow lines
on Northampton,
she looked back and said,
Is that where we can see the Blue Herons?
Penny showed me
the swollen cuticles,
asked if I would drive.
Laura was always drinking.
Always took the French leave
at a gathering.
Wine-stained teeth,
she slurred and swayed,
painting her thumb nail
a tacky shade of green, badly.
Laura showed me Love is only a word
between Loveless and Loath
in a Webster’s dictionary.
The things they show us
we carry always.
The stick and bindle,
cloth wrapped, heavy;
The weight of memory
and its lessons.
How to field dress a rabbit,
seek forgiveness. The dressing blade
sharpens on leather more than stone.
How a star will draw its planets
even when its light is gone.
How to love without regret
or never love at all.
Nathan Matthew Edmunds is an electric utility worker who writes and lives in Akron, Ohio. He grew up in underserved communities across Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, and Ohio.