Because the night is wet and shining,
green frogs pluck their little banjos and the road crew pouring sky
black asphalt under floodlights backs up interminably,
orange and wet and dark and steaming. There’s an old dog dying
in the corner of my bedroom and a family of slugs crawling their gleaming
nightly pilgrimage down my hall, so why not look at it, why not
pull it out and put it on, red and gold, reversible
like a heart, why not admit I like it, it looks good, the loosely belted lace
rose resting just below my navel, my belly bare, silk and shining, the bolts of curving
moonlit cloth, why not say yes, I do, I love it, this world,
red and green and gold, how I’m always wanting to swallow it
through one mouth or another? Yes, this world, this Judas, kissing me
and calling the guards, how I fall for it again and again, night’s drum
and violin, the smoke and sheen of morning, everything slick
and oiled into rainbows, everything bubbled
and blistered and singing like a goldfinch
for his bagged mate; how the unwashed hands that caught her
now knock against my door. Not pretending to be unhaunted, not offering
a single silver ring. Red and gold, the threshold’s burning.
The bullfrogs are mooing and the whole night smells of tar.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 3.
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