What I Left Behind

WHAT I LEFT BEHIND
August 19, 2006

I left my car behind.
I turned it off and walked
away and left it to drip-dry
beside a Cleveland curb. I left
the puddles under its tires
behind. I left my family,
my friends, my horse
wide-eyed, abandoned,
questioning, and ripped myself
out of their hearts, one arm,
one leg at a time, and I carried
the roads I traveled, the
trails I loved, across the sea.
I held every place as I held
my breath and everything I
had ever known; the wind
in the cottonwoods, the coyotes
in dry grass, the red pasterns
in river crossings, the paths
that led to secret streams
and thinking rocks and frozen
creeks in winter. I wrapped
the miles I treasured, the
yards I smelled, the ground
I had kissed with every
step I ever took in my
arms and placed them at
your ugh-booted feet never
to know them, to see them,
to love them ever again.