The Troubadour

by Adrian Shirk


To keep pushing even though it hurts to keep pushing because it is ultimately good—

A body like Christ's compels me.

Even though he has thrown his legs over the precipice, over the board of the king sized

bed. Undone like ghosts, like cowardly knights undoing the things that kept us clutching. (I have taken on an adult situation.)

He threw his legs over the board of the king-sized bed and he is leaving. She called it an

adult situation like Christ's. Like cowardly knights unlike virginal troubadours, like pilgrims for damsels or Christ.  One love is perilous, more perilous than one is two, three, ten, twenty. So reckless, she says, I could never do that myself, they say, I prefer the asphyxiated gaze of my one and only, my own personal savior. (But I keep ripping it up.)

Undone like ghosts, like cowardly knights with a body like Christ's. Letting go into the

perilous precipice, over the board of the king-sized bed—

 

She says, this is what happens

when you asphyxiate,

 

they say, being an adult is commitment, is sacrifice

and there is no risk in not breathing.

 

When He used to dream about the future, He dreamt this: To commit to something is to

careen late into the night, passionately, obsessively, late into the night and to let go like all outdoors, to risk breathing, stakes in your palms. If we can work toward each other, (this adult situation) but if you clutch you can’t complain, then we can go late into the night.

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