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By Ace Boggess
(Twitter: @AceBoggess)
—Sexuality—
So many things to put into your body
or offer up to someone else’s body, &
all the ways to drink: sip, slurp, swallow,
swill. Merlot goes with meat, right?
Tomorrow, maybe chardonnay.
Tomorrow, whips & chains
or beer on tap in the back room
of a hustler’s bar. Nobody told you
by your age there would be berry-
flavored hard seltzers,
fruity moonshine in a jar, zero-
sugar lemonade because one must
maintain that figure, right?
Your hand squeezes the glass,
thumb running circles on its curve
as you stare into reddish-purple &
see your reflection in its center,
a ghost in the dark that grins.
—Sanctuary—
Big space.
Vacant hour safe from virus.
We wore 3-D glasses & were elsewhere,
travelling amongst sorcerers & violent fantasia.
We sat still so as not to disturb the actors
who believed they lived their roles.
Our hands locked, sweating.
Tension tightened its piano string.
After, we compared fascinations,
joked about seeing an end credit
for people who wrote the end credits,
then stepped into evening sunlight,
quiet about reentering
the grit of city & reality so soon.
—The Story So Far—
Finished typing a short story
about the strange interconnections
of people who never know they’re living
lives both a little shady & divine.
I guess I think too much
about divided natures: mine,
Harry Haller’s in Steppenwolf,
the president’s as he tries to do right
by his son although placed
in an awkward position because,
as Jerry Garcia said in an interview
once, I’m, you know, into drugs, you know.
Not done with the story, I need to edit,
close any wormholes in my cosmic
mumbo-jumbo about everyday folks
who feel off-kilter walking around,
having sex with strangers,
getting themselves into knife fights.
When I wrote it, I understood
what the story’s about,
but now I’m not so sure.
I’ll think about it more today
while I’m off to pick up
my mother’s meds at the drugstore,
the type of place where I once
(or twice) loosed my other side,
a surgeon singing children’s songs
while cutting holes in skin.
About the Author:
Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, including Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021), I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So, and The Prisoners. His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.
Follow him on Twitter @AceBoggess.