J is for Justin
For years I’ve been meaning to tell you—
that midnight in the parking lot
on Meeting Street when you asked me
to spend the night with you, I hesitated
because it was an issue I never considered
and because at the time I was a virgin
but I wasn’t a virgin, so eventually
I led you to the front room with fake lace
on the window and wrestled with this question
until we finally accomplished the act.
And when I tried to tell you I looked at the world
through a series of dim window panes
and flat screen TVs—and you gave me another hour
of comfort—I was trying to say that I was a virgin
but I wasn't a virgin. A virgin who smoked
and played cards and spat like a sailor.
The Virgin Night-Walker. The Virgin of Copper
Hood Ornaments, following darkness with my harem
of young handsome men and a smart alley cat
who disemboweled crows as a token of love.
I was a virgin but I wasn't a virgin. A virgin like Mary
of Sorrows, pierced through the heart
with her seven sharp swords. Fierce as the virgin
of the hunt or the gray-eyed virgin of warfare
and wisdom, who emerged like a fully-formed thought
from the cracked skull of her father. I was a virgin
and I wasn’t a virgin. Locked in my flesh like an animal.
As angry as a gargoyle on the roof of a church.
Copyright 2016 | Pet Murmur