“Colosseum” by Virginia Konchan

Some things are sacred. Other things, less so,
though is that really how you want to go out,
swearing you’ll never go out like that again?
Stoned at the car wash, in the grocery line,
hoping your scent and purchasing choices
don’t offend: do you remember the feel?
I don’t have to feed a machine today;
the low earth of duty has been paid.
Oh god. Not another boyfriend who
tells me I’m too hard on myself while
simultaneously furthering the cause.
We’re scaring the neighbors again,
but telling us to stop would be like
telling a wild animal to keep it real.
Phenomenologically speaking, it’s
the wine talking. Physiologically,
it’s a holy dove. I dreamed about
you last night: it wasn’t platonic.
For argument’s or goodness’ sake,
we created a third space and term
between your advantage and mine,
game point, slam dunk spike serve
yielding a shared Olympic medal
based on a rulebook technicality:
you pound the ground, weeping,
while I run in circles, screaming,
in the barren middle earth of love.

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Image: “reliquary, for regrettable things 01” by Bill Cawley