Lionhearts
One very cold night in Ann Arbor
I went to a party where “Kate Bush”
was the password. I put on my Uggs
& trudged through the slush.
I climbed the fire escape to an attic apartment
where five other writers & I
sat around a Crosley turntable
& a box of Bordeaux Blend
& a stale bâtard with expensive butter
& listened to Lionheart
& talked about line breaks
& grew increasingly drunk
& complimentary & eager
—for aesthetics’ sake—
to investigate each other up close.
Some of us kissed. Kate stalked us
from the cover—crimped mane
& lion-skin suit—as two people
with silk scarves tied someone
to the radiator & danced madly,
leaping on chairs, licking paws!
Leo rising, downward dog!
Candles sputtering their last magic
into the rafters as we sank straight
through the secondhand loveseat:
floral flickering, ticking undone.
This is one of my fondest memories.
The whole room a gold & rolling
ship of girl flame! But there—
in the dark, catholic corners
where I can’t quite see—a stowaway
sometimes darts. Imagine such a creature:
subsisting all this time
on the dusty crusts & vinegars
of someone else’s slight
& misplaced shame.
