White Pine
by Michael Aurelio
A hole in the white pine
a carving, circular beam that burned through thistles and gave us
a patch of night.
Naked, smoking, she and I stood watching the origin of everyone.
The New Yorkers had no idea where to piss.
They’d stumble through the trees looking for some sign or indication of where to relieve.
“Piss where you stand” I cried through the darkness, as I pissed where I stood.
We lay on wooden pallets
five torsos ten arms ten legs thread and spool
Adam lay on my chest and as I laughed his head laughed with me
there and only there – not in a bar or loft bathroom or dark rooftop or after six drinks or in the past or possibly ever again in the future - did I want his head lower on my body closer to my thoughts.
I admit I took a few drugs and was relieved to feel that not much had changed
my chest and guts were exposed; certainly, and every touch felt like ten more on top of that
and more and more pathways in the trees opened themselves up where there used to be none but it was still my selfishness
still my eyes that rested on her –
the girl on my shoulder and in my tent –
still my need to travel to be sure of my belonging –
all me,
but as if with a secret that won’t stay down and smears itself all over your body and gets you grinning and is obvious to all.
Photo courtesy of Matthew King
Michael Aurelio is an actor and writer living in Brooklyn. He was born in Rome, Italy to American expats and moved to a small lumber town in Northern California when he was 10. His writing ruminates on grief & millennial migration patterns. His chapbooks include “The Smokers” designed by Paradise Motorcycle Club & “Written with Bourbon”. He has performed off-broadway & off-off-broadway. He received his BFA in Acting from California Institute of the Arts.
