I don’t want
these 5 minute
or one night
petty ecstasies.

I want a somnabulant
sort of drunkenness –

first, chastely sweet,
gently rolling around
in naive yearning
that was lost in time,
but recovered in memory –

like the infant’s
instinctual roving
for a mother’s nipple;

the involuntary choke
on the first sip
of cheap lager.

Do you remember?

No, no.
Not yet, cheri

let us slowly revel
in this painful divinity,
that will last as long
as these mad, sad summers
that you complain of.

© Zelda Reville



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