COUNTRY WESTERN

The old joke goes like this,
if you play the song backwards
you get the blind dog back, you get back the Chevy,
its grill hanging from its mouth like a set of bad teeth,
the gear shift bucking back into your scarred hand.
You get the bottle shattering silver inside the cab
and your shirt sleeve wet with love and anger.
The desert sun dripping, apocalyptic and red,
across the windshield. Even the neighbor's fence
of rotten saplings, which you drove through
maniacal and twisting, rises from the earth
whole again as you reverse through truth and redemption.
You get your wife back and you get her footsteps,
the way she drops her heels down hard
against the linoleum as she approaches you.
You don't even have to see her. You can close
your eyes and the let the book fall from your hands,
and let the music drift over your bald skull
as she removes her black blouse and bra,
swinging them like a set of circus knives,
tossing them aside, her tongue
climbing your neck, unbuckling every swollen
memory, the holiness of skin, the scent of collarbone,
her hips bruising yours one last time.