a poem in which i forgive you

i understand the moon was loud
& so were you. you did not know
how to get home & so you ate
holes in the bottom of every backpack.
it was midnight in the city of pears.
softness, at every junction leaking into
the rusty drains. when it poured
we still went. boots & the railroad.
lights like fire worms. you did not mean
to spend your money down to pennies.
you did not mean to call you father
& beg for a ray gun. he drove up
early morning. sun still going runny egg against 
the clouds. he drove behind you
or you behind him. you prefer to remember
yourself as a follower even in the moments
when you pulled a wagon full of televisions.
you could have been gentler. you could
have learned the corner store man's name
& given him a tooth when you left.
i have a place where i keep doors.
they are swollen & all have drowning
behind them. you meant to become
a famous tongue dancing in everyone's mouth.
i do not know if i forgive you but 
i will try. afterall, i know my uncle once
went to ireland & told no one. walked for days
until he met a bog witch & she promised
he was going to survive. i want to know
if that promise extends to me. i do not think
it does. i forgive you for the mailboxes 
& the apartment you stood in once only
to rip up the lease. i forgive you too
for the glove boxes. buying her cars
& asking her to drive back home & bring you
everything. the screws from the windows.
spoons & tables. the dresser on the street corner,
one drawer hanging out. your father's hands on
the steering wheel. water all above
threatening to turn us into eels. you always
come through in the end. blood like a monsoon.