by Briggs Helton
Don’t warn me about the blizzard, all winter I walked through Akron, five months of snow, wind chill, and seeping blisters. I swallowed the misery.
Don’t tell me to get the lump checked out, it shrunk, doesn’t hurt anymore, or I’ve learned to ignore it. Let’s find a name for it in a book of astrological signs.
And definitely don’t ask me about my blond haired girl, with your twinkling crotch-ward look. I love you and all your poetic excesses, but I am no cocksman.
Tell me again about the time we drove to Berkley. The two of us sleeping in my car, my ear resting against your worn pages. It was there I asked if Jewish angels play harps.
Good God, where have you been? My Johnathan, my how our souls were once knit. Go ahead, laugh at my poetic waxing. Knock me down a peg. Was I weft or warp? What color was the yarn?
What a fine romp we’ll have. Are those clouds really Whitman’s beard? Heaven cannot make us so self-conscious tonight. There is no moon to haunt us.
