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 a question I had never considered
and because at the time I was a virgin but
I wasn’t a virgin, so I led you to the front bedroom
with fake lace on the window and wrestled
with the question until
we finally accomplished the act.
When I told you that 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 tell you
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.
A daughter of darkness with a 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 the seven sharp swords of her suffering.
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.
Angry as a gargoyle on the roof of a church.
Copyright 2016 | Pet Murmur