The Subjunctive – Vandal Poem of the Day

If not the cane fields, if that’s not where he worked,

it could have been a city with white walls and gray birds

in the plaza, children begging on the steps

of the church. Or maybe he came from the mountains

in the south, sound of crickets at night,

smell each day of each day’s fire. And he loved the sound

of one woman’s voice, or the underside

of her wrists. And their son cried, and their son

was hungry. And he undid the laces on his shoes

before he lay down here. Or he walked in circles first,

underneath the stars and moon, certain that this way, yes,

this way was north. Or his hands swelled

in the heat. Certainly, his hands swelled.

Or he folded his hands under his head, told himself he’d stop

for just a few minutes, just to rest. And it was August,

I know that it was August, because the sheriff said

it had been six months at least, time to be buried by the shale

and then unburied, soft wind giving him new names,

or he went back home, or he never left home,

he didn’t try to cross, never put his mouth

to the gravel here, never thought that it was water.