The Hitch

Lisa Wells

There is a kink in the cure.  —T. Murray

not sex—intercession of flesh—
not communion in a body

not faithful but
still slip into the dim, confess

I failed to grasp the Who,
which venial wrong would deal

the mortal blow. The psalm was
unremarkable, save:

every warm-blooded creature contains
brains enough to tan its own hide

why those suits keep coming back
from the discard pile to haunt us

we don’t do right by what’s in hand
disclosure, contrition, amends

marching bead by worried bead
upon my rosary—fails to reconcile

 a knot in the garland
that keeps on hitching

--- --- --- ---

who can track the days

the name of the lake—
what music played

the way the waves reached out
withdrew and

insect-chorus scored
the summer dark—

the night we drunk on Mickey’s Fine
lukewarm malt liquor

watched the water mount and fold
and fucked each other—

of memory, I’m a simple girl—
easy to please short-term

at present I wonder when you’ll come round
to overturn this

remember—   recover your—
metronomic wah—   my One

what warped-platter spun
the white-vinyl

with a diamond stylus hitching

--- --- --- ---

and an itch in it
real bad

I’m ringing like an apse, oh

lay your pick, I’ll break
and spill the shades

the ornate agate aches,
silk against the bone—

to pity the need you must
punish the stone

spare the strop: spoil the grovel
—speak the please

all tongues contain, cannot
contain, the please

 erupting in my face—
in lust, or blissed, or anguished

at the wrist
by rod, by riding crop

divined—   you love a dim
shaft in collapse, where daylight

rushed to stitch the gash
you have me

on my knees now
            cleave your woman.

                        The earth moves—