“I, Pilgrim”

I remember drinking wine 

til we were silly and sick 

on the screened in porch 

in the back of your dad’s house. 

The old door on rusted hinge 

creaking and slamming 

in the southern kicks of wind. 

You lay your head on my lap 

and soak in the strawberry lemonade sky,

sipping the last long day of June 

out of your glass. 

You become Path and I, Pilgrim. 

I close my eyes 

and feel your breath on my tongue 

and the world in my hands.