A Love Poem, Because Love

was his name—he was no part
allegory, but tended bar in the town
of Jackson when not downing clear
whisky or beating his good friends
in a game of poker, though I guess

Love did have a lot in common
with love: he was inscrutable and pretty
particular as to where he spent his
time, despite the best girls loving
him, and only him, with his dark
hair so much like his mother’s—

and everyone knew how she’d fallen
and struck her brow on a rock,
her children seated around the table
inside and chicken ’n’ dumplings still
in the oven. Love carried her
with him, somewhere in the eyes

is what I’ve heard, and she’s what
made Love quiet, made him walk
down the middle of the street
at night, made him look up
at the crisp old stars, kiss

who he shouldn’t just to feel
a fist in the eye, and once, just
once, made him so drunk off
the hearts in his hand that he raised
when he should have folded.

For Love Barnett, shot and killed
on March 23, 1935 over a game of cards.

–Morgan Adams,
In Nonestica
Accents Publishing