James Callan

Holy Cavern

My dad once told me that love is a perfect golf swing
that his Callaway driver, Big Bertha
can really wallop your balls
He kept Playboys in a sock drawer
gold among the GOLDTOE
A pulpit, not a puppet
sermons as smooth as a shaved you-know-what.

There were nine planets when I was a kid
but the solar system isn’t what she used to be
I was in my own little world
Car beams at night
striated through Venetian blinds
Pizza delivery and Newport smoke
ice cream and kisses in the canyon of Peach Mountain.

We rode along the highway in the parting of her hair
her hands on the wheel
guiding me as I drove for the first time
going fifty in a thirty
I was fifteen, she was thirty
pearls on her wrist
each one like the moon
starlight mined from her pores.

I recall a holy cavern
a cathedral at a crossroads of thighs
a birdbath navel
a pretty pink nave
a portal into heaven
The cloisters! Have you ever seen such cloisters?

She was cold on the shore at Blue Pine Lodge
and when I kissed her
I thought of Laura Palmer
And though she died many years before I was born
I dream of Laura Ingalls Wilder
whose portrait plays the piano in my heart
invoking melodic ghosts
life on the plains
a simple existence
a little house
in switchgrass tides
and bluestem seas.