I been by your side since the day you stole me from that outlaw –
Jebediah Thompson –
who only used me like some sort of youngster’s toy,
orderin me out and spinnin me around, grippin tightly,
provin his prick was worth his talk.
But you,
you never shown me off, and not in no ignorant way,
just that you’re casual about it, is all.
Sometimes your hand will brush against my butt
and in those wordless moments
I know just what to do.
Remember when them Injuns was all hopped on that mescal
round the time we got the news
bout Custer gettin himself killed
and them savages was celebratin and causin a ruckus
and that deputy sheriff boy come over
pale as a hen’s hindquarters
and asked could you go over to the saloon
and straighten the situation out?
Diplomatically, I recall he called it,
and you said “sure” and you’d have to fetch your girl
and you sweet-talked me and rubbed me with oil
in just the right places,
whisperin to me all the while.
They was half a dozen of them with eyes glazed
and ox-blood war paint on they faces
starin at you and you stared at them and nodded
and they seen me by your side and one smiled
and gulped his liquor and set his glass on the bar.
He wasn’t the biggest of the bunch but
damn near about so, and you said,
“Fellas, gone need you to finish your drinks
and saddle up and head out.”
The grinnin one laughed and they all laughed
And this young’un with a feather in his headband
came at you a’running and you shot him.
His head went backward before he fell on his back,
his third eye red and toward the ceiling
and the Injuns looked at him and looked at you
and hell rose from neath those mountains
And set itself tidy in that there saloon.
That deputy sheriff boy come in and lost breakfast
on account of all that blood on the walls
and puddles of it on the floor
and him addin to it didn’t make it much a prettier sight
and you told him you would wait for me –
you called me “Missus” to folks –
to cool down from the excitement and tuck me in
and help clean up once you were done
and had a few shots yourself to numb the feelin
of takin men’s last breaths.
I remember you stood at the bar and ordered mescal,
one for each of them you shot dead.
You always had a way of kissin me certain
on the ridge atop my openin.
Ain’t never took me for granted in all those days
and I reckon you never would
and tonight was testament to that assumption
as I felt the whiskers of your mustache brush over me
and you oiled me in your careful nature
and held me whisperin in that quiet voice
you used even to all them you killed.
You smiled in that lovin’ly way you do
and you brought me close to you.
I inched toward you in all shy manner,
clean and ready and abidin,
and touched your temple soft-like,
and for the first time since you shot that outlaw –
Jebediah Thompson –
I kissed back.
Enjoyable.