Pillow Book

Here


(Written on the back of a page of doodles Dean did in the library one day, and folded into the pocket of his favourite shirt after Sam did the laundry. The shirt smells suspiciously flowery.)




I sing of arms and the man
By fate a fugitive

Heart jumps the first time I see your face looking out
From a list that says murderer, thief. Lies that make
Me want to sing out. Speak of strong hands steady on
Cold metal. Sure aim. Criminal? Fuck that. Hero.


Not eaves aflame but moonlit marauders
Followed and flanked by carrion callers

Drinking in dark bars, laughing low.
Clasped close in the night
Forgetting dawn danger
Mouth soft skin and hope sunrise is slow.


She was already loosened like long hair
Poured out like fallen rain

White dress blowing free in the wind and I looked back
And let her go. Never turned back when you came slow
And sad from the hospital. Know you thought I should
But I'm not sorry. And you did the same for me.


I sing the body electric...
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has strikes through the cotton and flannel.

Blood sings as we run, pounds heart to heart as we fall
Laughing. Grapple and roll.
Freckle-flushed skin golden in the sun
Makes way more sense than any words I have.


You read our lives in blood and dirt on cloth.
I map our path in ink and paper histories.
Libraries and laundry, Dean.
Two sides of the same face.