The Pleasure Club

Stumbling towards the daytime party, the summer humid and loud
in the pine wood, the quarry lake filled in with the reflection of trees
—here is a cold beer bottle. Press it against your sunburned face.
You have agreed to the spiritual practice of brunch. You have agreed
to encase your thighs in cut-off denim. You have taken erotic literature
into your heart. You have taken a flatpack Pleasure Dome
into the insensitive worl. This is your lodestar: visit every nude spa,
eat French fries with no underpants. Take a stand for games.
You will climb mountains to the bar at the summit. If there is no bar,
you will find a better mountain. You will pootle on your bike.
You will leap and long. You will gallop like a feral dog.
You will hold your lover’s face between your hands
like a giant hotdog. But first: here is the trail leading back
to the party; you will trip over your feet until you reach
a potluck dinner in a cottage with friends. The lamps are off,
except a year-round string of Christmas lights. There will be
a balm in this house, the pursuit of survival. The world still exists
for another day and another—please believe, for once, you can be
loved. The screen door’s constant clap announces welcome.



Katherine Meehan is from North Carolina. Her work has appeared at The Kenyon Review, Magma, Anthropocene, bath magg and other journals. She currently lives in Reading and her first collection is forthcoming from Two Rivers Press.