Heat spreads, detonated oil
it rises, another red angel
reluctant, it lingers in evening musk
a moment before joining its brethren in heaven
I ready myself for the next
wet sheets wrapped about my neck
Ariel sleeps through the whole thing.
Kidney meridian weak says my acupuncturist.
Yin not yin enough to hold its Yang.
Oh yeah? I’d give her Yin
If I wasn’t pinned down
a Lilliputian prisoner of time.
It’s another shared story over Bushmill 1608
in coffee mugs over rocks with a splash of still.
It’s Friday night, a repeating cause extraordinaire
for roast chicken, pine nut hummus, Protestant whiskey,
Gluten free nut crackers, chapters on life.
Michele still escaping New Canaan and John
Still charting star paths for everyone but herself
Ariel bats at the floor with restless legs
to Skrillex, D.J. Koala, E.S. Posthumous,
Hermes Trismegistus and the Emerald Tablets
ever the philosophizing fifty something hipster
obsidian hair still wild like highland streams at night.
Meg is talking to Mark again.
This is the last time this time.
And she doesn’t want to talk about it.
But one more thing she’s seeing a psychotherapist
now. And that all she’s going to say.
Because no more, really, no more.
It seems I have always had friends like these
Lovers like these, lives like these
Observer and observed, filling mugs before they empty
arms wide, hot faith for one more round.
It’s the eleventh hour, late for lives on menopause
and bottles of golden promise one quarter full
our sweet distillations not long for this world.
- Claire Fitzpatrick, 2014