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From Where I’m Sitting

Christopher Lawless

Jesus lived across the street
in the body of a disabled boy
but age wise a man
who never pronounced our last name correctly
“Yo Wallace! Wallace!”

He wore wings under his tee-shirts
had a laugh that set the house on fire.
He would yell to the boys driving fast cars passed him.

The kind he saw in black and white
sitting on his green bench,
Auto swap sheets in his hands
and the doctors told him he wouldn’t live passed eight,
twelve, or twenty.

He would look through our kitchen screen window
as we ate dinner
my mother screaming at his face
separated by the tiny holes between them,
later laughing as he ran through the front door

finishing dinner with us
describing a 76 Firebird, blue as the ocean
with a V8, only 3200 dollars
and he’d reach for the salad barehanded.

“God Damnit, Brian!
Tore us all apart
a third son in a household with already two
pulling things we could never get away with
as sons or neighbors.

Rolling tires from hills
urine in the lemonade
knocking on a neighbor’s door as he beat his wife
“Hey neighbor, I’m Brian,”
running after midnight
through the backyards of surrounding streets
the man chasing us with gun,

Brian never catching his breath
until we made it home
shut off the lights and each took a knife for protection.
The one night he stayed out too late,
scared his mother to death.

The next morning he discovered blackberries,
“Shit, shit, Wallace! Holy shit, shit, Wallace!”
Pushed purple into his lips and mouth
ran threw the tiny thorns, praising the Lord
leaving his own flesh and blood in the bushes

leaving us with nothing, to put into baskets
but the few we found before him
the few that fell in front of his feet
and the few that the birds took.

The kingdom of Blackberry
had found their Prince of Peace
but he would never return to claim what was now his.

Brian passed a few weeks later,
twenty eight years old
with a body as strong as a bison’s
but a heart that just couldn’t pull it.

I hadn’t been to church in many years.
People lined the aisles and filled the pews.
We weren’t the only family Brian had changed.

Barb Cowie spoke about the time he jumped his bike
“Whooooooooa”
off our homemade ramp
and crashed into her son holding the video camera.

Sarah Worthington told of when he wouldn’t leave their house
“Get out, Get out! This isn’t your house, I live here.”
I remembered that day, then dropped my head into hymns
listened to my father cry for the first time

The hymns turned into advertisements
showing pictures of cars for sale:
A new Blue Taurus, four door,
a 92’ Jeep Cherokee, rusty, but willing take best offer.

I started to hear the Gospel of Brian
through the idling of a 57 Chevy,
sequenced turquoise, designed for racing shows
drag strips and trashy, fast women.

I heard the choir sing,
“Yo, Wallace!,” eighteen voices carried
“Wallace! Chris Wallace!, through the church, down the streets, passed the lake, into the woods, and across the town,
“Wallace!, Chris Wallace! There’s even faster cars up here, and I can even see your house from where I’m sitting.”



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