January 11, 2017Lady from Mountains
The walls of your private room at school were so choked
with Fillmore posters that daylight didn’t show,
but your sights were set far off: the Colorado
ranges none of us had crossed. Though you joked
and smoked grass with us until all hours,
we never saw you sleep. Or go to class.
Once in conference, when your theme was passed
around, you fainted—dead beat, our blighted flower.
In what spell did your patchouli incense hold us?
How could we sit for hours in full lotus
watching you sway and sob to the wail of sitar
or the songs of rock stars who had gone too far?
Finally you went home, were someone’s spouse.
Were you happy? Or shuttering your house?
from #53 - Fall 2016