Rock Gods

They can’t remain nameless, they eat sand and sleep in ocean water. They jam whenever, wherever, for any length of time. It can hurt the insides of your body. When you stop motioning your head to heaven, to hell, it’s time for a groupie to lay down, smoke fills your wavy hair. You feel the beat in your genitals. You can’t take off your clothes, you’re somewhere in Ohio. They are too busy to paint your skin with the names of men. They are too distracted to follow your tunnel, does it have an end game? Another beer. Cigarette and smack. Then sleep somehow against the music. All that really matters, in the air, assaulting your mind. But you love it, like a father, like a curtain covers you, just for tonight.

Sarah Lilius is the author of five poetry chapbooks, including GIRL (dancing girl press, 2017) and Traffic Girl (Ghost City Press, 2020). A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her poetry appears or is forthcoming in the Massachusetts Review, New South, Boulevard, Fourteen Hills, Court Green, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. Her website can be found at sarahlilius.com.