Devoted to Exile

Handfuls of dust on the stairwell, Mason jars brimming with lukewarm tea, and worry upon worry that the cold is not good for the older horse. In winter, I cannot decide what to call her - lover, friend, sister, wife - and "all of the above" won't work for a man who promised the Lord he would never not choose. Wedding bells, fried kielbasa and sauerkraut, and an old man with a greasy comb-over playing bouzouki on a folding chair in the corner. When you arch your back, when you suck in your moans. I fall asleep telling myself stories about surviving happily on a deserted island, yet it's not the comfort it was when I was little. Shadows cross the bedroom walls. A man in me is devoted to exile, another to fake prayer. Perhaps we ask too much of our genitals! You sway in moonlight, calling on all the gods. Your skirt the color of autumn, your heart an unwieldy throne.