Rooster Cogburn

My fingers were slick with Crisco
when my heart first broke.    
Mama made French Fries,  
shook them with salt in a shopping bag.
The back seat ached with the smell
of warm potato.    

Cans hissed open as paper crumpled.  
Our eyes shone in the dark, 
six impatient moons.
Then the screen lit up.  I spun 
to look for the source.  
Sparkles and particles
bored through the night,
the edges of images 
sprayed past the car, 
rearranged themselves on the screen.

After the wonder, the luster faded.
The grown-up movie, endless dialogue,
incomprehensible plot seeped 
through the cracked windshield.  
My father dangled his arm across the seat,
plucked fries from a bowl on Mama’s lap,
crumpled one can of Olympia 
after another.

Finally, it all came down to this:
the drunk, the snake-bit girl, the rescued horse,
a terrible triangle galloping 
through the desperate night. 
I couldn’t see another way.  Couldn’t
save the girl, the horse, the man,
but watched it all play out,
what must be done, who pays the price.

It was the pony, not the man or girl,
whose fierce burst heart first shattered mine.
I let the loss wash down my throat,
swallowed this disaster 
even as my father swallowed his,
let it engulf him, his outstretched arm,
his oversized heart.