I’ll go without mentioning Texas,
      a state erased, vaguely heart-shaped

& too big to fail. In my mind, it swallows you
      in red clay dust that sashays

the fenders of the Ford you pulled suitcases
      & a dog kennel from,

finally arriving with just the useless stub
      of a bus ticket burned up at the edge

of Oklahoma. I’ll write your name a final time.
      Farewell strip mall liquor stores

we hoarded for whiskey. Farewell empty beer cans
      rattling with the butts of Camels,

soft packs you crushed under the heel
      of a resoled boot. I loved you for nothing

but the set of wings scrawled across your back.
      You, who perfected quick fingers dealing blackjack

at the reservation & washing dishes in the kitchen.
      You, who once skewered a scorpion

with a tire iron on a highway outside of Reno
      & said it’s sad for life to be fragmented like this.

If only I could store happiness for the day you hang
      your Levis on another woman’s footboard

in a state so large we can’t spit across it.
      If only I could kick my habit for ranch homes

& family photos. Forget him. Keep your skin
      once-bitten, a map that’s missing Texas.

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