The thunder gurgled over our heads
coming down through the thick without striking
hot light.
Wet snow fell in clumps of luminous blight
as we boys stood in the surprised holes
of empty tires holding chains, swinging
and baying up into the clouds.
We are passage birds.
Our shouts flew up trapped inside black air,
New Year’s Eve blowing us
down to the playground after midnight,
where the frozen vodka
boiled in our blood
until we fell upon our backs in tears,
and thin laughing lips found more of each
with angle and disbelief, to turn
and quiver together, all four lips,
melting with the other cold flakes,
falling into each other—
our headfirst, swift stoop.
Our first moments cauterized
in fear-cramping arms, sea smoke
icy, legs and mouths unabashed
so far that night,
and belts tugged and shirts pushed,
and heads cocked, his stubble burning
red sonatas into my soft flesh.
Uncoiled between our two bodies
were two more outpatients, escaped,
eagerly radiant, unbending,
and striving for genius
or captivity
behind or in bars;
our greedy extremities rushed
and crushed, burning eyes wide
to gorge on newfound lands,
pilgrims be damned.
Mikal Wix grew up in the Melting Pot of Miami, Florida, of green-thumbed, hydrophilic parents. The city seeded insights into many outlooks, including the visions of a revenant from the closet. He studies literature and anthropology and has recent words in or forthcoming in Penumbra Literary Journal, Berkeley Poetry Review, Angel Rust, Tahoma Literary Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Hyacinth Review, & works as a science editor.
Angel Rust 