Crosses On The Mesa Poem by MacGregor Tagliaferro

Every year since '87
On the first Saturday in June
He would hike to the top
of that mesa near Red Deer Creek
and plant a cross
One white wooden
cross every year
Put up there to honor
their memory
He blamed himself
for what happened
on that night at the last
Blow-Out Party
Most folks see it that way
Me, I'm not sure
Some sad, desperate, crazy stuff
has been done in the name of love
I figure it this way:
They both loved her
Neither one could live without her
One of 'em proved it on that night
The other one,
proved it every day afterwards
For him there was never
another one
Oh sure, he sought comfort
in random low rent rendezvous
But then the guilt and grief
would drive him into a bottle
and a drunken, days lasting fog
Then he'd go up to that mesa
and sit amidst all those crosses
and write wring-your-heart-out sad poems
Of course, one day,
that is where we found him
Up there with those crosses,
his poetry notebook,
and an empty bottle
of Pendleton
And, with no more
crosses to bear

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