The Weatherworn Banshee Declares Her Undying Love For Some Accountant She Met At A Party

Poetry by Mark McLaughlin The others threw dip and salsa at me
until you, my darling, told them to stop.
These hands, callused and scarred
from climbing rocks and tearing apart
wild dogs, long to hold you-and these lips,
puffy from sucking cracked rib-bones,
burn to slather you with love.
Come with me: leave your tallies
and percentages behind.
I'm not a monster--I'm your last chance
for escape. Do you really want to grow old
and fat and dreary, and, at last, silent?
That, my dearest, would be true horror.
How happy we could/should/must be,
screaming, screaming, screaming
with all our hearts, with mad desire,
with boundless wonder
and pure joy.

After almost drowning in a deluge of Korean Spam, I'm now munging my e-mail address, so please remove all the "H"s from the following to e-mail me: lawrencehh@hiho.com

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