Encasing

“I” is only a convenient term for somebody who has no real being.

--Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

 

Three weeks ago we downed Bacardi

from across the bar; drowned in the warmth

of sticky sweet ignorance. Eyes bloodshot

from doing shots, we closed our lids,

lips pressed tight against our teeth.

But we felt their gawking, and we

cannot be the object of the uncanny gaze,

the subject of subtle looks. So we hid

our faces in our arms, laughing as liquid

oozed from our mouths, fluid ran

from our eyes. We hid our expressions

like a suicide victim hides his scars

as he falls asleep on the scratchy

couches of psychiatrist offices.

 

We’ve talked electric dreams--of tongues

on sockets and toasters in tubs.

And yesterday we sat on the Quad

as evangelists yelled at us, saying

we could only be saved

if we accepted Jesus, if we bathed

in his holy waters; but homeless

drunkards sleep in sewage, eat

moldy bread to soak up whiskey

that lines their stomachs.

But we would only avoid hell

if we read and cherished the Bible.

So we wrote our own hooks

in the margins of books

about how before you go to heaven,

you first have to die.