for the back of her sock drawer
by Eldon (Craig) Reishus
The road is nothing like the map.
The map shows a straight red line.
Yet here it is, the road,
half washed away by rains,
and the half left over hooks,
twists, jags, swipes,
every wicked which way.
A drunken road engineered by a pickled brain.
And the map maker some pied mad hatter!
Inside of nine weeks
you went from my housemate slash
daughter to slash
sister to slash
lover to slash
slut fucking her least favorite son.
Your bumm as perfect as that narcotic afternoon
you improved upon timeless Keats:
Beauty aches to be truth, truth beauty.
And deep within my graspless self
I suffer to hold on to this
even as your right hook floors me (nearly).
Early the next AM,
striking out alone again,
rounding yet another bend –
beyond some man tossing sticks
into the daybreak for his dog –
I glimpse, blushing behind the glorious mist,
the spitting image of your bumm comely dewed with Irish parting.
Tá áilleacht sa bhóthar ólta
'is tá ciall íontach sa léarscáil chacach.
The drunken road is beautiful.
And the shite map makes brilliant sense.