On the Theory and Practice of Storge
by Lucas Reilly
I found God by the gas station toilet frozen at the altar of Koala Care,
a father praying for the nipples
to clasp
the metal buds of little denim suspenders.
Miles away, grandfather warmed a jug,
slowly dribbling, his diuretic brew
splashing in mom’s care. She zipped him
unaware next
Tuesday we’d pour the rest of him.
Remember, the three things to remember
are death, taxes, and I will forget
my wallet and/or my keys. Maybe four:
Before
doing laundry you always check my pockets.
Ask at 18, my goal was to take yours off.
Ask today, the surgeon says, “It went
well, but the anesthesia is wearing off.”
Drops drip.
Vows renew as I slip your sweatpants up.
My theory is it’s not a Red Red Rose,
a book by Barthes, Baby Don’t Hurt Me.
Not a ballad of flesh-and-blood romance.
Love is pollen
falling, a residue on old shoes, clotheslines,
everything you’ve touched coated in magic,
sparking unexpected tears. It’s Adam
and Eve falling into temptation, God snapping
his fingers,
smiling on the damned, bellowing (I paraphrase),
“Let there be pants.”
Lucas Reilly is a writer with poems forthcoming in Sky Island Review, Anacapa Review, Crab Creek Review, and Sheila-Na-Gig. His journalism has appeared on NPR, BBC Radio, and a handful of award-winning iHeart podcasts. In a past life, he was senior print editor of mental_floss magazine. In another, he was a cruise ship pianist. Originally from rural Pennsylvania, Lucas now resides in Baltimore, MD.
