We wept like peasants.
We threw holy frankincense oil on each other’s bare chests.
Laughed so hard at people and their foppery
at times our stomachs nearly curdled.
In winter, naked and steaming,
we let the alchemy tilt our heads back.
Not a word or gesture between us
to reckon what we saw there
in the spirit of the wolf-moon night.
We slapped that small town’s law,
kicked up its unchristian dust.
You’re welcome.
In one near-death ending, on a flat hilltop of buffalo grass
where we just buried the last of our saviors,
we shivered and wept for our souls.
The iron bars of prison coming far too near
as a cataclysm leapt up to greet us, neighborly.
And by warmest grace, it only notched bones
to make us wary of our lawless trade.
We got lucky. We saw broad waters from that height,
were given a way back, down a lightless path
over rivulets and stones, rasping our penitent breath.
This morning, years ahead,
we hold up blue ice calathea to our foreheads.
We wipe blessed waters on our skin.
Tonight, we’ll sit around a circular driftwood table,
sober and unmoved to speak, with friends
so much more eager than we are.
What can be said about us?
We remember how we came to this.
Where we stood.
The violent luck of it—
our bowed heads like harlequins,
beholden in this near deceit.
We circle the living tomb.