the Lovers by Carrie Hilgert | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter
Maybe Heaven’s a Mulligan
Here’s how it might go down in my Nirvana
Not Cobain’s, not Siddhartha’s, nor any other deities’.
Right there, on Interstate 89, I’d find you again at the
Tipsy Fox, making half-circles on the rotating
bar stool; a sweating tequila in your grip. I’d puff
the same joke as last time, the one about Bon Jovi
that made your lips bend hard & your head brush back.
After a few drinks, I’d slam a song on the jukebox,
(E7 probably), & we’d dance again, humid, eyes holding;
shuffling our shoes on the puzzle-piece floor. This time, though,
I’d invite you to back to my room, listen to your heels on the
walkway, the neon buzz of the Vacancy sign, & savor the
bolt of the door as it found its jamb. Then, there on the bed
of Room 18, I’d spelunkle your thighs, weld my hands
to your curves, & drop my mouth to your lips,
that I’ve always imagined
tasted like Friday.