Chris McCarter


BUTTHURT MOUNTAIN

I.

In spring I’m thinking
In spring I’m thinking
Of gingham
Shirts creased as if they were set on a table in a square and pressed
Dresses creased as if they were wound neat around a brick
I’m thinking of death
Even when everything is budding
Everything is still very dead
And dying—halfway between heaven and hell Is something like an equinox
Something like spring
It resembles a mountain
I think of it as a wrecked mountain
Still standing amidst earthquakes, tsunamis Surviving atomic fits
Hush, what a quiet mountain this is


II.

In spring
On this mountain
I’m thinking therapists are like cats
Eyes slow to move
Very still breathing
Clawing conversation
That is friendly
Seemingly without obstacles
Curious, agile, pretty thinking
Without obstacles, walking and talking
In spring I’m thinking of seeking a therapist
Mom has started chemotherapy
Mom isn’t even dying yet
Mom is yet to
It is still spring
This is just what I’m thinking


III.

In spring I’m thinking of having a party
In spring I’m thinking I might spread my ass for every cock it can handle
I’m thinking of lying down on my back
I’m thinking of lifting my legs high into the air
Gripping each big toe to hold it open
I’m thinking of being held open, very quiet
Very wrecked
In spring I’m thinking: How to cum when depressed
And also: How to get the nice sleeping with men you hardly know
They all must have medium to dark hair
They all must have healthy complexions
(Flushed cheeks denote virility)
(A good nose lends to a well-proportioned wiener)
They all must have arms
I’m thinking they all kind of look like my father
He, of course, is a part of me too
But they smile


IV.

This spring
Think gingham!
Of dying and folding and fucking
Or floral if that’s your thing
How to dress up
For spring!
What would my father think of all this?
Is the sun so hard?
Is the sun so high?
Is it smiling...?
I don’t know
The cat tells me to let you wear what ever you want this spring Goodbye!