Lionhearts

One very cold night in Ann Arbor

I went to a party where “Kate Bush”

was the password. I put on my Uggs

& trudged through the slush.

I climbed the fire escape to an attic apartment

where five other writers & I

sat around a Crosley turntable

& a box of Bordeaux Blend

& a stale bâtard with expensive butter

& listened to Lionheart

& talked about line breaks

& grew increasingly drunk

& complimentary & eager

—for aesthetics’ sake—

to investigate each other up close.

Some of us kissed. Kate stalked us

from the cover—crimped mane

& lion-skin suit—as two people

with silk scarves tied someone

to the radiator & danced madly,

leaping on chairs, licking paws!

Leo rising, downward dog!

Candles sputtering their last magic

into the rafters as we sank straight

through the secondhand loveseat:

floral flickering, ticking undone.

This is one of my fondest memories.

The whole room a gold & rolling

ship of girl flame! But there—

in the dark, catholic corners

where I can’t quite see—a stowaway

sometimes darts. Imagine such a creature:

subsisting all this time

on the dusty crusts & vinegars

of someone else’s slight

& misplaced shame.