Lines from an Index Card
Shane Wilson

An index card:
a catalogue of memoriesó
your name scribbled
in my high-school handwriting,
still vivid from retracing. 

A line about loving your voice
through crackling long distance
when summers were spent
watching my grandpa die.

Written in a line that seems sloppy from excitement,
I recount the first time I took your hand
and held it in mine,
feeling you breathe through your own skin,
trembling.

Frantic scrawling on the back
lists songs dedicated to you.
My pride aches over the shitty pop titlesó
Jessica Simpson and Mandy Moore topping the list.

Surprising how tastes evolve with age.

And here is a line about a night at the racetrack
when you said you were leaving
and distance won out over young love
and I realized that I wanted to be with you
more than reality permits,

that I wanted you
the way that tires want asphalt:
the tread gripping the road,
clawing, fighting to hold on,
and struggling to explore the
rough contours
of its stone
lover.