Cowboys tearing up the heliotropes they hated.
Saying “heliotrope” over and over. Drunk.
The movie announced its themes in such a way
you could imagine writing an essay about it.
At every turn, the woman’s choices seemed to be:
believe or cradle or leave.
But who was the main baby of the picture—
the one whose presence wordlessly directed the efforts
and attentions of the others? They dance too fast
to say. And the horse’s neck is drenched in sweat.
When I came to her one night, an actual baby
told me there were tears on her neck. Evidence
of distress and its duration. Tears both long and
uninterrupted. An essay might center on the terror
and the fury wildness provokes in certain people
at certain times. Under ropes, under water, under
cement, under tires, it cries and laughs—Are you tired yet?
The tired essay could imagine sinking down
in the pearl snaps on the cowboy shirts, whose
beauty caused the sun to pant and swelter, seeing itself.
Why was it impossible to turn back to our days?
The thought recalled me to another plant, the one
whose name wants to be forgotten as fiercely as I
would like to remember it. The broad, pointed leaves
at its base pierce having and turn it into something
partial, something more like “having to beg forgiveness”
or “having to scratch the mattress before accessing sleep.”