Augustine, too, was good in bed,
lips and fingers seasoned travelers
in the landscape of a lady’s legs.
His groin ached concave
as the sun began to set each Friday.
His skin was tinder
and her hands—ten matchsticks striking
Each morning, squinting in the sober sunlight,
shaking off the ashes of
last night’s spent flames,
Augustine overslept his fifth alarm.
King Intellect would chastise Queen Libido, and he’d pray:
I’ll take one chastity please but not yet thank you
—her legs, which used to
fill in all the spaces
became a tripping hazard.
He leaned his head against her breast,
hoping for a pillow
and found instead a stone,
weighing down his walk
like double gravity.
The freedom of the finish
became a shackle that contained
like my teenage retainer I haven’t worn
since my last visit to the orthodontist.
Instead of being a skeleton,
a supporting structure,
a frame upon which
he could hang his growth and
sculpt into an actual shape,
demand of desire
became a warden
Augustine was too good in bed
to stay in bed.
He left behind his walks of shame,
sheets twisted off the mattress,
hot breath on cold mornings,
for more adventure than his mis-ses.
August 28, 2017.
Happy Feast, Augustine