Andrew

Blue eyes in a darkly tanned face.
A flash of a white smile.

When Jesus called Simon Peter
He also called his brother
They dropped their fish nets—did
Andrew’s feet tangle?

When you took me for a drive we
listened to Dolly Parton and I
sipped on my cranberry limeade.

Once I told you, “Mitosis is the
process of healing.“As I held up
my hands for you to see the scabs.
You put your hand to your chest,
“Not always, not always.”

Andrew, you talk about marriage and
love. About, “Courtner, party of four.”

When you ordered me extra cherries
I chewed on a stem—the redness gone—
turning it to a mass of course threads and dirt.
You sucked on the straw from a large
Chocolate milkshake and told me
of going to the movie theatre.
How she sat three rows in front—
kissing someone else.

I can imagine the images flashing
brightness on their heads.
I can imagine your blue eyes bulging
and that chest clenching—hurting, breaking.
I wonder if you grabbed her arm
and shouted something dirty or
did you walk out right then?

But to tell you the truth,
I would write you watching,
as if it were a movie too.

And when you drove away
with the taste of popcorn and
butter on your lips you’d sing
that old Dolly Parton song,
“I will always love you.”

Andrew ran off with Jesus
and left the fish to swim freely—
to be caught with someone else’s hand.
He went to catch the men.
And when he gathered up the fish of the 5000
did he think of the fish
he’d left flopping in the boat—
their eyes wide, mouths agape, and
fins giving one last fight.

I wonder if you were like those fish
that late Friday night.