Brian Cummings

You left town about sixteen years ago. One Tuesday in March you were sitting in front of me in a science class. Then you weren't. But I heard you were doing pretty good for yourself.  A new pair of boots showed up in time for the first snow. And your second son is saying his first words. The car starts every morning and no one mentions that night at Ray's anymore. I wonder what you think about every night in that second just before you fall asleep and dream of the old boulevard and that house on the corner you told your mother you would buy for her when she retired. Does the sting of no one clapping when your name was called during graduation from eighth grade return? Does the smell of Kristen after your first kiss at my birthday party bring back the chill of November desert nights? Or do you hope this is the last night away from home?

a resurrection of sorts

I drove on a freeway over hills I've traveled many times before, mostly a passenger. The car had driven me small distances around town, to an airport once, and once home from one. The sun dropped over the mountains and at moments split the space between the visor and the car in front of me. It was blinding, but for only seconds. A song on the stereo full of f.m. static I've heard and danced to before sounds different. The passenger let trails of smoke from her cigarette sweep out of the rolled down window. The thought, then the smile on her face, her legs crossed in an easter dress, the very yellow rays of a sunset everywhere. My arms, half covered, tried to steady the steering wheel and take this all in. Somewhere someone is thinking of their savior rising from a grave. Me, I'm taking a picture and hoping to escape my own.