Monthly Archives: June 2012

Mountain, Elsewhere

There are days the grass is a bed,

or should be if we let our hair down

if, when on the way to grand central,

hungover-thirsty, booze-bruised, young

desperate-happy, we want sleep-

sex in grass over commuter chatter.

There are days our bodies belong on top

of a mountain where we taste

truer to ourselves. The heart stays broken

because we let it belong in a mouth

instead of a hand. We take anchors

wrapped in silk over holiness.

Which is the loneliest: one night or

nothing, stretches of nothing-want

when the body, in a desert, seeks

another after letting go of the other.

What is better: one night or

an anchor. Self, we are something.

We belong with others, sloppy, almost-

not-young confused crusaders,

crossing bars and each other’s teeth

for a chance to be laid on the mountain.

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Ecstatic Can Happen Among the Drunk

If you begin drifting off when a friend, over nachos,

tries to explain how seashells relate to the family unit,

if you refuse a tequila shot because you’re tired

and even though the conversation moves to spirit,

you want to go home and read Jung, Don’t. If the man is

married and his thoughts turn to chakras and your root

ignites, if he knows you’ve ignited, if you take the shot,

move on to another bar with your friend and her men

when sanctuaries of her dress begin talk of ghosts then

shove you to your great-grandmother’s grave,

don’t drift off. Reach out your hand. Ignite them.

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