I was under a spell.
I thought the magical vagina
would transport me
to a kinder—
more gentle—world.
Some lessons come
with concrete
and empty pockets.
Conversations with ducks
and feral cats
down by the river.
That ass, those breasts—pure sorcery.
I remember lying under the bridge,
dirty and drunk.
I remember walking the streets, 2 a.m.,
broke as a goldfish
floating in a bowl.
I remember stealing bottles of vodka
from the neighborhood grocery store,
sick and shaking,
puking
the moment I got out the door.
Because that poison—
in the tragic dichotomy—
kept me alive
for the time being.
The heart is such a tender bird.
It ceases flight
when it worships the wrong thing—
sometimes sooner, sometimes later—
but always.
Now I understand.
Now it dawns on me
like gentle rain
walking to the eighth hole
on the long fairway.
God isn’t an orgasm.
Some fragile minds
will worship anything.
But I get it.
It was the ass.
Always that ass.
That ass convinced me
to rub it for luck,
like a lantern
hoping a genie
would appear.