Jim Daniels
October 2002

Skywriting


Marrying at 19, he hired a skywriter
        to scrawl I LOVE YOU across
                the hazy factory sky of Warren, MI

then moved into his in-law's basement.
        Divorced in three years,
                and she kept the cute, little dog.

Or maybe a helicopter dropped
        a thousand balloons onto the street
                or he took her away

in a hot-air balloon. Whatever. Warren
        had seen nothing like it.
                His gay brother Raymond

was still in the closet theoretically
        and his other brother theoretically
                had come out of rehab clean.

Everyone emerged
        from their houses and stared at the sky
                like the second coming

of Devon or Timmy Jay was happening
        up there (Twins shot by their
                stepma). Everybody smiled

and shook their heads, hands on hips
        or raised to the sky like
                can you believe it?

It couldn't have been a hot air balloon
        with all those telephone wires
                criss-crossing like burnt spaghetti

or Mr. Dunn's bad combover. Everybody—
        I mean everybody—I know how people
                say everybody and just mean like

most of the people—said it wouldn't last.
        Karen squeezing his hand,
                her teeth already a gritty smile—

she wasn't even pregnant, they insisted truthfully.
        But then why start out in a basement?
                Even true love couldn't last

in a basement in Warren, what with
        the floods and all. The mold and spiders,
                the old Playboys stuffed in the rafters,

the swap-meet guns, the plastic weight set
        from Sears, the blood-stained washtubs
                rusty buckets, crickets, unmatched

sneakers, backwash beer bottles lined in a case,
        ripped ironing board, cracked casement windows,
                cigar boxes stuffed with legal and illegal papers.

It was a helicopter. And roses, I think. Hundreds,
        and how could he afford it? Asshole.
                Okay, goddamn it, I'm the other

brother, I can call him that. I could've blown
        bubbles at them and taken the money
                and got high for the next couple of years.

Everybody knew it wouldn't last,
        but that doesn't mean a few of us
                didn't get choked up.

The skywriting dissipated
        into thin air. Or the balloons
                blew away. The roses hit

with a thud. We backed away from the noise.
        As it lifted back up and flew away
                we helped gather what had fallen.

Michigan Quarterly Review, Summer 2002.