When You Began to Know Your True Measurements and Dressed Your Mind Accordingly

I was toting a three-gallon bucket of goat's milk

when I saw you by the woods behind the barn.

I always carried milk to the house left-handed,

on account of my bad elbow. That's why

I only ever Indian-wrist-wrestled

the dudes at school with my left hand, too,

because of my bum arm.

You were standing there, way back by the trees

beyond the barn's flood-light. I could see you

were wearing one of your mother's dresses,

about two sizes too big. Night was shadowy and cold,

and there was no moon. You had a suitcase

I saw when you stepped into the light.

I called to you,

but I don't remember what I said.

I wanted to tell you:

You come across and you go back.

I wanted to tell you:

I come across and I go back.

I said I fed the horses, didn't I?

I fed the horses

hay and a little grain. They liked the grain best,

but you knew that already. You knew

the mind of a horse like the back-hand

midnight of Jamaica or Majorca or some other place

you'd never been and would never go

with my best wishes. You knew that sure

as a swallow's tail or a falling stone.

The weather's nice in Mississippi,

you said.

If you don't like it,
wait ten minutes
and it'll change
just for you.

Wait ten minutes,

is what you told me.

And then it began to rain

just like I knew it would.

And my elbow ached

every time I heard your voice.