I wrote this poem four years ago, when traveling to Salt Lake City, we left on the trip the day after Thankgiving. We skirted ahead of several big storms, it had been many, many years since I had driven that far west in what was already winter there. I wanted to stop in Laramie, had thought that I would go to the place where Matthew Shepard died. I did not go there, but he and his story and mine were intertwined throughout the trip and most especially in Laramie.
Laramie
Part 1
Fence posts
wind swept snow
blue skies
and mountain ranges that go
on and on.
It is cold
and I wonder, how cold was it on that October night
when they put Matthew Shepard
on a fence post?
I watch the snow
the curves and waves that are molded by the wind
kept still in the sun and cold.
I can see his face
where the tears from his eyes washed away the blood
as Matthew was left to cry while dying on a fence post.
Part 2
There are fence posts everywhere
along Interstate 80.
They protect the travelers from
the wind
the snow.
They did not protect Matthew's
young, loving, vibrant body.
So his tears are now seared
into my heart and white snow is everywhere
and I am remembering the angels
that came to Matthew on the day of his funeral.
Angels conceived and made real
from deep inside the hearts of those
who loved him, and wanted
to honor
his life.
Part 3
We stayed overnight in Laramie
on a cold night.
It was very windy and
Matthew's memory was everywhere.
When we went to the supper club
I asked about a memorial.
I felt those angels shimmering
around our table, as I met
a glare from a woman who
may have guessed we were queer.
Or maybe she was just hard
from life
whatever
it made me shiver and
I was glad to feel the angels.
How come there were no angels
to save Matthew on the night
when he was
tormented
beaten
and hung on a post to die?
The waitress said she was in high school
when it happened
there are still flowers at the site.
It is down by Walmart.
It is a hard thing to have
our town known for.
Part 4
The night is dark, inky black
the winds continue to blow
the temperature drops.
Matthew and the angels
and all those who continue to love
against all odds
are dancing around
in the room I share with my girlfriend,
my sweetheart.
We wrap each other in
our arms,
surrender into
each other deeply.
Later, the sun rises
the angels
still there.
I breathe, acknowledge
the angels
the memory.
I breathe, it is a prayer.
A prayer for Matthew, for love.
MaryAlice Mowry
November 2004
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