Tara Gilbert-Brever


          Laura lusts
          for the ancient cities
          -- How long is the rope
          of Rome?

          Dena lost
          her plane tickets
          -- It shared Mary's cord
          with Jesus

-- they always smoke
in Dena's car; it has a sunroof.
This is how they always arrive,
in mustard sarong and holey
short shorts, flip-flops and nearly-
wood clogs,
to the Tuesday beach --
they're not residents,
so they always lie
to get in for free. 

They always pray
in church,
but never by the lake,
over their Subway
clubs. Laura is deliberate,
a nibble, her doll-
mouth hardly moving. 
Dena is action,
a gulp, her mouth a twist
of machinery.

They never read
their paperbacks, it's too much
of a squint. They sit too close
to the tide; they tug at their bikini
bottoms to cover what they forgot
to shave. Laura always wavers
in the wake that Dena
parts; their hair
deserts them for the seaweed,
their breasts are chained in lake-water.

They never saw
anything like it. One day, parking lot: 
three men, maybe brothers, 
tread past, and on the hill they began,
their hands smooth knives,
spreading out the beach
towels to perfection. 
There they were a transport,
their knees a door, all the way
to some far temple and back by chant--

          Laura longs
          for these men-angels,
          all of them tabernacles,
          -- There is a God!
          Dena left
          her trust
          to a smaller carton,
          -- Yeah, He's in my back pocket.

Date of Birth: December 26, 1977
Location: Union Grove Wisconsin
Email: Yourwildhorses77@aol.com
Occupation: Student, Assistant Poetry Editor at Eclectica
Publications: Eclectica, Primavera, Stirring, Poems Niederngasse, Wicked Alice, Blind Man's Rainbow, artisan, Copious, etc.

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