And I have been punched by a man who twanged like a banjo,
stole my heart and wrapped it in leather; he laced my arms together,
made off with my unkempt hair, and rumbled out on an eighteen wheeler,
his heading set towards the highlands.
What I thought, was just a river, turned out to be a road,
and now I am running down it on nude feet. If I could, I would
strip off my eyebrows that he said were likely the lost twins of Frida’s,
link them into a lasso, and I would wrangle him back in,
dig my chipped fingernails into my fists and sock him,
blow him down the way he blew me down, revel inside the sounds
of his soul ricocheting along the walls of his skull, brace
and tug him into the night, and kiss him until he could not breathe,
then toss him to the canyon, his semi-truck I’ll kick down to him,
and once he has impacted upon the bottom, I’ll shout to him
in no lack of words how much I love him.
But the truth is I am alone on a road, with my toes bloodied
and numb, chasing the lingering haze of a lightning flash,
cursing the moon and her damnable affections that she has spilled;
damn damn, I’ve slipped on her silver, plunged into man. If I could
go back, I’d have worn better shoes, avoided the whole ordeal,
gone home to an empty room and rested upon my bed with vivid
daydreams of the moon, her gracious offerings, men and women with
somber blue eyes, passing mine on the street, turning corners
and disappearing; I’d make lovelorn sighs, and smile.