Member Poem

fool’s mate

skin-deep, midway, all the way
geared in violet
(very little violet)
her body made for Rebellion
legs pointed, arms precise
I sit
I sit and watch

in a dark backbar
stinging winter night
dirty dub on the cracked speakers
while guitar techs warm up
whomping, snicker-snack
slithy tones

she’s a superball
room pulsing, to and fro
she ricochets, twirls among
the fit,
the beautiful,
the weak,
ale hits the stale floor

my sixth whiskey
the thinking whiskey
a new realization, at this rate
the main act is running late

my greed is freed
I arise to bloody eyes
stiff leg forward
my last pilgrimage
tippling, toppling

she looms closer
my fears reappear
I brush them back and rush forward for my chance
on the dance floor

blue hair, green hair
pixelated and smeared
she is a trick
she is a trap
she is sweet valencia
her pith, endless summer
I remain, drunk and thirsty

among bootboy warriors,
iron eddies, and punk rudies
she zigs away from the stage
missteps on sticky floor
collides into me

secret knowledge is shared
the essence of something
the briefest of intimacies

I retreat
to the bar
very far from home

the band takes the stage

First published in Boston Poetry Magazine