for jason, the tattooed motorcycling poet who kept it all a mystery

[coeur]

This is a poem about my old poetry teacher. He seemed like a very stiff man--his shirts were always buttoned all the way up--but everyone knew he was a motorcycle-riding, drum-playing rebel covered with tattoos. At least, that was the person he was before his motorcycle accident. Everyone waited for him to take his shirt off, like Superman, and reveal his hidden life. I never squeezed very much out of him, although his poetry mentor--a later poetry professor of mine--gave me some insights about his life: the girlfriends, the bands, the accident, the coma, etc. Of course, I have still always wanted to hear about it from his mouth; of course, he's graduated and is too far away to ask now.

The poetry department strikes me as a very exciting, interesting place. I have met a lot of very strange, very talented, very irritable people from that department.


I wanted you--or me--to tear
buttons off your shirt; wanted
you to show the ink on your veins.
The anticipation was epic. I noticed
images--tatters of a face, rays
of a wheel, flashes of a mirror
--through your sleeves. I wanted

to see stitches; wanted you to show
the scars on your leg. The gossip
was lush. I imagined memories--
scraps of a motorcycle, splinters
of an injury, wails of an ambulance
--through your limp. I wanted
to see your breath; wanted you to show

something--anything--behind your
buttoned collar. The frustration was
exquisite. I dreamed possibilities--
rings of a laugh, glimmers of an eye,
scratches of a snarl--through your
words; and through Lisa's words too
when she remembered the pretty,

praying girls by your bed after the accident.
'Beautiful, broken girls,' said Lisa, 'a new one
every day.' I considered their cheeks pressed
against your spine; and I knew they didn't
read--but I also knew they saw
tatters
and rays

and flashes
and scraps
and splinters
and wails
and rings
and glimmers
and scratches

in all the places they were supposed to be.