Visions On The Worm Poem by MARINA GIPPS

He said, 'goodbye' before heading southwest,
blue jean tears up the thigh. It was hot and
we both really wanted to take them off. Joe was a
nice guy, proper upbringing. 'Never been to Mexico
in my life, ' nor I.
With cigarette butts three months older than before,
we're dying in our own waste
if I don't clean this car out
eventually.

He sneezes. 'Bless you, ' I say.
He nods like he's being baptized
for a second in thought.
I'm sure he's been baptized.
I'm sure he's been confirmed.
I'm sure he's been confused.
It's hot outside, I can almost taste
his spit.

We both like Tequila. With sunrises
the ocean is like a cote d'azur.
When are we getting there?
When are we putting our feet in the sand?
When are we sinking?

It's these visions I have.
Joe never has these visions.
Joe kicks back in his chair-
cliche sitting under hat,
feet crossed, lips thick
like a swarm of bees had stung them.
It's hot outside. I can almost taste
his spit.

We both like Tequila.
Joe's never tried it,
but he's always wondered,
what about that white worm?
Green in someone's stomach.
Purple in your mind.
Red, they say, is blood
flowing more quickly.
Joe never blushes
but he has memories.

I cannot solve you, Joe,
but I can give you
the shock effect. Here,
take this worm and eat it,
This is my body,
given up for you.
This bell sounds-
Wake up, Joe, I am here in this tree,
a nymph of the wood.
You will take this worm
and have visions of me.
(Boldness is apocalyptic) .

Memory loves me.
It never lets me forget.
One night that lasted all day,
one death complete and glorious.
And I am not a romantic.
Denial is the key to survival.