one of many crests

Gather

This moaning matriarch

grows stronger as her

boyhood shame

quietly hangs

hidden beneath the drapes.

Gather, children, at her skirt tales

and take her sway.

This is warmth,

giving what that

blindfold christening

can only promise.

Here, now, in the glowing dark,

her voice floods the room

and washes up your calves.

Soon, though, your need

pours into each other.

You’d thank the creatures crowded in the corners,

they watch with love

falling into your open throats

as you begin to

tumble and kick

to the band marching in.

And when the lights went out,

you busted from the windows and

flooded the streets

your squeals washing

into the city,

unaware of anything more than the

slightest push

from the night air

and a sudden

quietly thrilling rush.