“Q” by Kevin Foote

Editor’s Note: An alternate version of this poem first appeared in the anthology Do Not Tap on the Glass from Beyond the Veil Press. You can purchase the anthology and support BTV here.

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The Roman numeral three, encircled 

in not enough stars

is what I noticed first.

When the stock lifted F250 stopped tailgating me 

and moved onto the next car heading past the sign in Bailey.

We met up again near Kenosha Pass, wiry muddy hay-colored beard, 

small and squared off 

like the world he built for himself—

a world he packed easily into the Skoal, I watched him stuff behind his lower lip.

The man with all the answers sped on, and I was left

packing pebbles from the creek bank, 

prickly thistles growing on hillsides along Long Meadow, 

fresh needles from conifers arching over me, 

and snowpack that would start to melt whenever I thought of how to open 

my mouth and speak to you.

So I kept it all packed tight, 

let the elements graze over my chipped tooth, 

my tilted left incisor, my gums, careful, 

so careful not to waste it on quick words—

empty and hot.

What does it feel like 

I wanted to ask you, to, to

and the snow softened, 

so I waited, and saw to my right many, many bannerless kings, 

crowns snowcapped, with the vast valley expanse at their feet, 

parceled by men with all the answers.

Three wooden crosses rose from a hill 

and the questions came with a few pebbles and needles 

spat into the cup in my console:

What does it feel like to shepherd 

a flock of found family, in a country full of wolves?

How wide is the arc of your staff, the gnarl of your rod, 

carved from these kings and placed within you, 

flowing from your brooks, fluid and rushing,

that you may give comfort against the pack, encircling?

I drove further, tasting the snowpack 

and waited, listening. 

Thistles and gravel followed, as I thought of the coroner 

who someday long, long from now when you and I 

have had enough of this coil, who would write in their notes 

on my frame of the white mustache, 

the mother’s father’s rheumy, gray-ringed eyes 

that held copper joy for decades, 

the ligature marks all over the tongue from the year 2022 

when students victoriously silenced me at every chance 

they could, turning me into a stranger in my own classroom, 

and the pinprick-sized calluses all over the fingertips 

from the many times I tried to rebuild golden cages for you, 

only to have you grab my hands into your own, 

strong from the rod but tender for the greatest of your lovers 

and littlest of your lambs, and tell me Nope. 

Actually,

It’s interesting that you should bring that up,

And I’d learn to listen, again, and again.

What would the coroner note of the thousands of etchings 

we’d place over my ribs, with each laugh, drag show, 

shot thrown back, race run, tear shed, and tough words 

of wisdom shared as I did my best to really hear, 

only to find, to find, 

and the forest pack rolled out from my mouth again, 

to find that even the etchings are merely topical, 

not deep down within them, 

that my bones, my fingertips, my lips, my voice, 

the world between my legs and the cosmos behind my mind, 

were never asked to be proven as fully human, like yours?

The forest floor pack grew damp and mushy near Fairplay. 

The snow had melted and I knew 

to hold onto it no longer, lest it turn to muddy things

like the Skoal pack behind the lip of the man 

who had all of his answers.

All I was left with were a few words, 

if you were beside me in Rocinante, 

my faithful 4x4 traveler, or next time 

I’m at the bar and you greet me:

Thank you. 

Thank you for being my friend.

I’m listening.

You lean on your rod and staff, 

my shoulder is here, too.

About Kevin Foote
He/Him/His

Kevin Foote is a writer, teacher, and explorer. He was born and raised on The Central Coast of California, but now calls Green Mountain his home. When he’s not in class with his students, he loves investigating restaurants in the Denver region, trail running, and inviting friends and followers into the writing process with poetry through social media and poetry slams. Kevin is in the process of seeking publication of his first complete poetry collection, Rivers, a work full of the woe and wonder of teaching, the unsung moments of victory over mental health struggles, and the unabashed joy of experiencing the natural world along The Range. His work has been published by South Broadway Press, Scavengers Literature, and Beyond The Veil Press. You can see his published poems and works in progress on instagram @feastsonfoote.