A Beach in Ibiza (Our Honeymoon)
RYAN RICKS

I. We boarded a propeller plane.
We lugged suitcases up stairs.
We drank chile-infused tequila.
We smoked on a beach in Ibiza.

We saw a couple’s shelf life expire
Under neon and four-four rhythms.
We snuck into the festival grounds
And Jitterbug’d on a beach in Ibiza.

We laughed at the shaman preaching
Apocalyptic salvation at the jetty’s tip.
His dashiki contradicted his condemnation.
I became glass on a beach in Ibiza.

We used to imagine Sisyphus smiling;
                                                                         now we pray for his dying.
II. Idly stargazing from the hotel room balcony:
                                                                         I tried finding Orion’s Belt—I needed something
                                                                         new to slip around my neck before Thanksgiving--
                                                                         but how weary, stale, flat, and stupid I was
                                                                         to search for that galactic accessory in October!
                                                                         So baby, I’ll be home for the holidays!
                                                                         The main dish: my severed smiling head,
                                                                         Asleep with its Cheshire grin.
“Adela” brought us coffee and
migas underneath a grass roof
On a beach in Ibiza.
She had a tattoo of Orion’s Belt
on her inner-thigh.
I slipped it around my neck
and wished Orion went
beltless.
III. We played footsie under the covers.
We microwaved the leftover migas.
We caught the last half of Volver.
We used the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.

We tossed our dirty clothes into big
Cocoa portmanteaus and handbags.
We boarded a commercial plane and
Flew back to Liberty and Prosperity.

We watched the spiraling baggage
Incessantly spin in continuous circles.
Its centerpiece broadcasted equations.
Muzak gave me a splitting headache.

We used to imagine Sisyphus smiling;
                                                                         now we pray for his dying.
IV. Upon returning home from my first day back at the office:
                                                                         I opened the door and Wagner screamed into
                                                                         My ears !!! screech of orchestral catharsis that I only
                                                                         heard during bad arguments.
                                                                         You threw a shoe, a piece of china, and the
                                                                         Vase I bought in Ibiza—one of them drew blood.
                                                                         Orion’s belt sat atop our dryer, vibrating with its
                                                                         Cheshire grin.
Months later, after the lawn sale,
I bumped into you at a lawn sale.
You were holding a Wagner record.
I had an old globe in my hands.
An antique phonograph rested near
the elderly salespeople and you tested
the album.
V.                                                                          ​im sorry we danced