Against Sex

    korey hurni

 

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Let me touch every surface,

but they wanted more. No hands,

only Northern Light tongues, horizon

bodies, cliff hanging feet. They’d outgrown

their flip-flops.

But what did they care?  They said it was

punk.

               They never listened

 

— crossroads, whipping post, almonds —

 

areolas larger than Morgan silver dollars,

cocks, smoke folding upon smoke.

Every scent perfect.

The way, sometimes, the world is perfect.

Scent is the closest they get to love, prayer

of defeat. Tried to get four together:

Beatles.

 

A weekend in bed to learn bodies,

a night in the car, same thing

— brown sugar, shattered, feldspar —

18 months to learn Korey’s body,

the sigh of a mountain.

 

Fingertips that hold the pick soft

run through hair as the guitar is tuned.

Hair pulled from a brush and tied

with ribbon, hair left in the back

of the car. Afraid to kiss cheeks, to wake up

in the morning. Fear in voices

licking ears. Eventually

four fingers of a left hand calloused holding down steel strings.

 

I see mountains when I see scars.