A Blond Boy

Apollo had it all figured out, it seems,
years before you and I began to self-destruct.

I was holding a red cup, and you were cradling me,
and in the darkness in that parking lot,
three potheads were lighting up.
They began to breathe lantern oil,
flaring brightly for half a moment,
and gone, with only the memory of
my indignant gasp and your low murmur
of sunshine laughter a reminder
that it ever endangered us at all.

You walked in that night wearing three pairs of sunglasses,
and I laughed and removed them one by one,
reminding you that we do not live lives that require
constant protection against sunshine
or joy, since our own existences seem to be doing
damn good jobs as buffers against
most of the good that we were promised
the glow of gold in our pockets would lure to us.

No one happy chain-smokes like that, Sam,
and I began to pluck the cigarettes from your fingers too,
because I couldn't stand the crack in your voice
when you told me that you didn't have any friends left
     at home,
and I can't let you risk a broken throat and misty eyes,
since sun gods were made to stare clearly.
Your bright eyes followed me as I strummed the guitar,
breathing later those bubbling words of praise.
You're the god of music, honey.
Don't lay this one on me.

I will not be Daphne. I do not die at the end of the story,
and my roots do not reach deep into this soil.
My father will never come to save me.
I shot you with one arrow, straight and true,
and for every mile you chased me,
I led you another. Stop breathing.
You'll wake up in the morning,
and cross the sky again, and soon
you'll find another as beguiled
by the sun's easy light.