Eighteen

Although I was drunk,
I saw her apartment had
a homey decor.

This made it easy
to relax when our party
came ashore on her bed.

She preached against TV,
wore huge triangle earrings,
vied to be crowned queen

of my virginity.
Her black skirt caught the wind
of the window fan

revealing the icon
of chiefs and gods,
soft volcanic tuff.

I landed, mottling
the sheets, a jet airplane on
the tarmac's gold line.

In antiquity's
workshop, I was a big flop.
Next day, the others

found my skeleton
among the boxes, reeds and
grasses. Red canoes,

voyaging across the
Pacific, loaded down with
blood oranges, shoes,

came to my rescue:
boys extended brotherly
affection. The end.

by Jeffery Conway

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