Three poems by Kim Noriega about David Wade Hogue

Imagine from Beneath the Full Long Nights Moon

I was freezing. I’d refused to trade my black leather

jacket for a coat that would cover my pregnant belly.

The gusts from Lake Erie were bitter. You held 

out a candle, to warm my hands by. That was the December

Mark David Chapman shot John Lennon. Despite the weather

we’d risked Route 2 in Bob’s rusted-out shell

of a Volkswagen Beetle to get to the vigil 

downtown on Public Square. In November,

Rich had left me—nineteen, unemployed, unwed,

and pregnant—for that bitch, Sandy, who looked

like Ursula Andress as Catwoman. I’d decided to keep

the baby. You helped me move to my parents’, said

Rich wasn’t worth my spit, painted my sister’s old room

moonglow white and sweet Georgia peach.

Rocket Man from Beneath the Full Flower Moon

Do you remember May’s perfume counter? Lilacs in Bloom

Eau de Toilette? I’d coax you within reach—

I swear, I promise—spray you till you’d reek,

then run like hell. You’d feign outrage, boom:

god damn it, Kim, and laughing, give chase, dooming

yourself to years of such abuse. Or your role as Peter,

the goat herder, in the Butternut Ridge Theater

debut of Heidi, Girl of the Alps? When your two

goats (distracted by squirrels) charged off barking,

I nearly peed my pants laughing. You just played along.

Clear nights, I’ve imagined you, eye

pressed to your telescope aimed at the stars.

You wanted to be a rocket man—Neil Armstrong.

I wanted to be Emily Dickinson, or Harriet the Spy.

Wish You Were Here from Beneath the Full Snow Moon

When you told me, No more tears on this shoulder at 4AM,

I believed you. Vowed I’d never again bring my grief 

to your door. How could I have foreseen

the distance this would bring between us? That decades

would pass before I’d see you again? Dave,

when I sent you my poems, I never dreamed

they’d cause you pain; could not conceive 

of you not knowing about the holes in my walls in the shape

of his fists. You say you should have known about those dark

times. Say you left when I’d needed you most—have regrets.

I say, you befriended the sad-eyed girl that I was, came into my 

life when I’d needed you most. You say I’m your inspiration, a star.

I say, make a wish on me, my dear old friend. The air is redolent 

of lilacs in bloom, the moon is a sweet Georgia peach in the sky, 

and I still refuse to give up my black leather jacket.

All poems ©Kim Noriega