A friend once drove out of town so fast
he didn’t know if he was headed north
or south. He just wanted to make
the coast and finally learn

how to swim. But that wasn’t true. I knew it
was his boyfriend, the metal whip
of his tongue that drove him to walk that bridge
each night—inevitable as Persephone come September.

One night after the bridge whiskey, he asked me to hit him
and I should have
said no.
He said he needed a pain that would come and go

like wildflowers in the high country. He needed
a pain he could look at, touch, and then forget.
For some reason, it feels strange as men
to exchange even these small gifts.

I don’t think he ever made the coast.
I don’t think he learned how to swim.
I don’t know
if we will be punished for the gifts

we give with these little ichthyic brains we love, still so dearly.

Zachary Lundgren received his MFA in poetry from the University of South Florida and his PhD from East Carolina University. Recently, his first full book of poetry, Turkey Vulture, was published by Meadowlark Press. He has also been published in The Columbia Review, Wisconsin Review, South Carolina Review, Beecher’s Magazine, and The Louisville Review.