Ricky Never Tells His Parents He Loves the Gay Bar

Imagine Ricky

at  small oval table

in darkened corner, sipping

Rolling Rock, remembering

tent revivals, altar calls, father speaking

in tongues, mother overcome with spirit

convulsing

on sawdust covered ground

as if struck down by large hand,

shouts and cries of forgiveness, serpents

the old men held above their heads, clinging

to their hands, coiling their arms with cool flesh.

Imagine Ricky, house music thumping allegro

dance floor writhing in sweat and sex

He scans the disco, remembering sermons

of Sodom and Gomorrah, watching

collapse of civilization before him

to a blistering techno beat

two young bodies bound together

surrendering to hungry mouths

and roaming hands.  One kneels

as young blond before him

sips

with forked-tongue at salt of bare chest.

Imagine Ricky in awe of brazen wickedness

half-clad bronze bodies thrash and flail

To fiendish rhythm, lips find lips, tongues

find tongues. 

Something

within Ricky stirs, uncoiling

itself, baring

its head.

Imagine Ricky, eyes closed dancing

while cities burn

his body, a cloud of ash, falling.

-Ken  Harmon