Saturday, November 12, 2016

Signum Crucis

She slams the Father-shot
in one experienced gulp,
head thrown all the way back,
and rattles to the burning soothe.

She lingers in her exhale,
reaches for the Son, swallows
him hard and hurries
to complete her holy trinity.

Turning the spent Holy Ghost upside down
on the sticky wet bar, she closes her eyes,
lets her head dangle, swirls it around,
and enjoys being half way to abandon.

She wiggles to the dance floor,
twirls with Bobby before moving on
to a couple of unknowns
and getting to know them.

When her glow gets runny
she returns for second service.
First, the Ex and his bluish-purple rage;
she keeps her eyes closed and lets herself believe

it wasn’t all locked-up tight
and letting the neighbors know.
Bobby hears another of her moans
over the glorious thump of the bass.

Next, the Girls, a twenty-something
triumvirate of crossed arms and pursed lips
over the day-in-and-day-out blur
of her jaded green eyes.

She sips the last shot slowly,
selects a Soon-to-Know-Well,
gestures across her chest
and slurs Amen.

First appeared in The Homestead Review - Fall 2016

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