Behind my Presbyterian pauses, I let all flesh scream. I shed all clemencies, and when she pulled off her gored skirt, I finally felt relief; the pain of hiding was drawn like blood from me. Through our summer drives that destroyed the outside, I was Fitchburg dazed and confused but still clutching into you. We talk about high school, we say forget high school, and we do, and the silence is overdue. You left yr nails dug in my back. I left bruises on her neck. She left me on her breasts. (And if my values be so hollowed, and if my moral code be cleft, at least I’m in my Sunday best.) And they’ll know she’s a Christian by the way she said, “Man, just pull out when you cum,” and, Christ, it turned me on, so we got bombed alone together, and we fucked in the kitchen. She talked about Allende: the broken glasses in the refuse; the disappearances and coup. I talked of abattoirs, the graded meat they spew: “I want to go to Bovine U.” We woke up to whiskey and Oreos and alarm-clock radio. We had Ol’ Glory when bored and cocaine for shows and a pill from CVS she dry swallowed, so she wouldn't have to take it home.