An outlaw can hold his breath
longer than light in summer.
Breathing holes in the armor,
boy, propel you into the ages;
though you have cuckolded courage,
slept with old bitches
in rain as randy as rabbits
and stink like an unwrapped Pharaoh,
you ferry back on the wave
lengths of cowardly rainbows.
They have chipped your headstone
to pieces. You rise out of the
pieces: a hero coming home
to the land he lost, a winner,
spinning a smoking pistol,
a beautiful, cardboard sinner,
a caricature of a badman:
William Bonney mixed up with
Prince Charlie; and both of you rowing
over the foam of Jordan
and talking about time and places.
Deliberate fury raises
the hackles of history, kisses
the ghost who dances over
the glory distilled from the gun,
the legend drilled in his boots
and clutching a seven of hearts.
The metatarsals of time
arch in the tungsten mind;
in the slow deliberate adagio,
the outlaw spins and drops
on a sun like a bucking bronco.
The Kid and all of his cohorts:
dauphins and gay deceivers
intent upon being damned,
wait for the westbound trains
in stations with silver linings.
Phosphorus for the fable
comes in the hooting cargo
and laurel for all the green mornings.



Copyright © Estate of Ramona Weeks, 1999.  All Rights Reserved.