Night Out

by Renwick Berchild

The night holds weapons, battlements, arms
how fat it grows, full and strong, with the wooly
thickness of a coat, and the deepness of a well;
down, down, down we both go, holding hands
with exhales flaring up, hot flotsam on the sea.

We both have needs to be far away from home,
outside the lily white bathrooms, sanitized living;
the night is a gateway towards a hungrier being,
swept us aside as reddened autumn leaves, fell
out of trucks driving headlong down the freeway.

I remember our thunderstorm that caught us. We
cried. We trembled beneath our umbrellas, two
six year olds in floral plastic jackets and galoshes
on our feet like cinder blocks, we were rooted cold
waiting for mother to come lift us back into warmth.

Now we’re running from heated houses, from WiFi
and cool sodas in the fridge (flavors just for us).
The night is scaled and thoothy, with a wild grin
that makes our hairs stand on end, a foul and hip
melody, the tintinnabulation, howls and the horns.

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