You never really knew what you would get back then,

in the little plastic bags with one-off soda names like 

“Purple Drop,” “Orange Crush,” “Sudden Thunder.”

It wasn’t always something simple, 

like a little bit of weed.

            

They rubbed out half a cigarette 

and packed it with the scented mash, 

then parked his car out on a hill, 

and did the things you do

at that age.  

So what 

if he cried after?  

begging her to pray beside him 

in the grass because he’d seen 

something in the smoke

too terrible to bear without a God. 

So what 

if she had wished that her love

could satisfy his every need?   

He needed her to know that  

he’d found hell inside 

the atoms of his body, 

a vision of endless slavery

to nerve endings, cells,

and brute, organic will.  

She left in fury,

stomping down to the highway 

to catch a ride with someone 

who would think he’d done her wrong.    

But he was still there after she’d gone, 

down on his knees, praying hard

in the stretching, alien dark,   

and when he looked up,

there were junebugs 

gathered on his arms and shirt, 

rubbing their tiny clawed hands 

together, and there was 

a murmuring all along the hills.