pilgrimage

By Rory Strong

/ Poetry /

with nothing but a balaclava

& a swim tan 

my bell is getting rung again.

i throw a bandolier 

all up and over me 

and pack it full  

of PBR 

and long lash 

lavender. 

in the day, the light 

can’t fully be forgiven. 

it’s the sound of surprises—

still rustles in the thicket. 

sweetly,

as the paranoiac paints

straw figures,

men in the distance

higher than them, 

the silhouette of 

our sign 

tells pilgrims 

their imaginary 

travel time.

at times

i lie prone 

& lap water

from the silver bowls 

placed graciously

& filled 

sparingly

on the crawl

to my lord. 

othertimes

my knees and 

elbows bleed 

as wailing walls 

of agony 

against the 

ecstatic core.

sometimes it’s 

both and i 

let it all fall

as rain between worlds 

or me between / you.