Desire Is a Road
Spend enough time on your knees
and you become sacred, penance
being a symptom of the divine.
My father, who palmed corsets,
was like this. He’d shoot-up
in the cellar, presenting something
brilliant in his voice, scratch
his face to proclaim, Not there.
My mother, more taken with plans
than approach, considered him a find,
hot like ice cream and dice,
hairtrigger too. Whenever
I’d ask for advice,
she’d shrug, point to the elms.
See that house? I used to live there
when my jobs were to steal
peaches for Carmen,
water sequins under the floodlights.
This is how my mother taught me
the difference between
desire and the sea—
one is always bigger.