a cleansing (post-expulsion of fetus)
before the rise and fall of summerland
I wanted escape to rockaway beach,
but you told me the truth about misleading lyrics.
instead, you spent the warmth in healing me unwittingly
(with six-o-clock mornings at high altitude
and fruity home brew)
your refusal to allow me to fixate
on anything but summerland
allowed plenty of brookies for the fire,
(but never rainbow with their translucent,
tricky shimmer - you knew that gutting one
could make me cry)
you spoke slowly about youthful summers with
nothing to eat but cold tortillas and ketchup,
your cross-dressing father, and trying
crank for the first and only time.
I listened, tied wooly buggers, drank your overly
hoppy beer, and told you nothing.
you laid down the seat in the back of jimmy
to make a place to sleep off the rocky ground
and when our morning came for the last time
I woke to my leg asleep under the weight of
yours (your flesh and bones innocent of my
self-imposed incarceration, I kept motionless
inhaling your sweat
and pine until I was completely numb)
jimmy’s back seat was haunted, dripping
and peeling with my violation,
but your salt was a scrub
with which you exfoliated me
slowly, unknowingly,
as I bathed in summerland.