In Kitty Liffey’s Bar and Grill, Last Round
after Radiohead’s “How to Disappear Completely”

The streets are ablaze with wind and mayhem,
something fishy and tidal looming toward the dawn.
At the edge of the pier, the glassy-eyed barkeep
calls for final rounds. There is protest in the air.
A voice like muffled fireworks sputtering over dampened
dreams uncoils from the juke. Two girls do a muggy
shimmy by the door, fizzing noxious laughter. The newly
coupled coo and arch, preparing for immanent
disaster. Loners stall in groups, still courting time,
dodging the pent heavens, the skeletal lightning, the
eerie marrow of the riven night.
I am the only one here
who is not here
and though I am lowering
and elemental, and I know my way around
a coming storm, when I unspool from my
corner stool and float toward the open door,
the light foams from the mouth of the dark and
I haven’t a ghost
of a chance.

Matty and Hatty and the L-Seven Marauders
or “Wooly Bully” in the Moonlight

We said, “Dance, Hell!” You think
a bit of shimmy shake, some rotgut wine,
some stompin’ on the sawdust of disaster
is all we have in mind? You know
nothin’ ’bout real women. We
are ridin’ out on sheer
memory of flame,
ornery, unbraced, and
movin’ like near thunder in the moon-arrested sky,
the branches quaking shadowy warnings,
the owls slinking in the leaves. The dull thud of the
hairy hooves, jiving ‘round the fire, the smoky
incantations swiveling up over our loosened braids and
breasts. “Hot Damn!” Matty commented
when the horns glittered between trails of moss and mischief.
“Someone’s being sacrificed tonight. Light the stage!” And
then the seven sisters advanced from the creeping cauldron smoke
and drew us bodily in, opening flickering arms,
flashing chips of mirrored moonshine
to admit us to the circle. The last thing I heard
was my own voice cawing:
“Matty, we’ve got to
take a chance.”
Someone rasped out the numbers and our names.
Then the wool was pulled over our eyes
and we—presto-change-o—learned
to do the same.