I remember icy water hauled up
in a bucket from a well
we were wandering by then
and the wooden chest he tore apart
with a claw hammer for a fire
my name is not Jean
said Jean my hands are not
my hands are not done shaking
I remember the scar you could see
when he faced the light
so hungry once he tried to eat
his shoelaces he sighed the buttons
right off his shirt he muttered
and then because it was green
he said even his shirt
well first just the collar
but then the cuffs and then
he knew where we were by looking at
the stars knew how
to make me believe he did
on his arm a tattoo of a knife
in his hand a knife
one Sunday they found us
they cut down the church bell
it clanged against the ground
they hanged him with the rope
no I won’t tell won’t tell it
that way it was only
a gray bucket I remember
clattering at the bottom of a well.
Matthew Thorburn is the author of seven collections of poems, including The Grace of Distance, forthcoming from LSU Press this fall, and Dear Almost (LSU Press, 2016), which won the Lascaux Prize for Collected Poetry. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and son.