The Moon

Soft. Her heels clicked behind me. Soft. The baying of a chained dog. Soft. The rumbling through her purse for lipstick, to make her kisses vivid. Soft. The smoke of grilled barbeque and lit cigarette and old automobiles crawling through the road. Soft. The press of her palm into mine, her fingertips clawing my hand. Soft. The unsolicited laughter of passers-by and tambays, whose eyes dart meaningful good-byes. Soft. Her hand on the car door, I unlock it. Soft. Warm breeze entering my car, the air mingling with the pine smelling scent. Soft. My hands on her bosom, gently nudging her back to a reclining position. Soft. The cry of a barker from two blocks away. Soft. The unbuttoning of the shirts, the first seduction, I’ll see her breasts, probably asymmetrical, she’ll gaze at my chest bereft of hair and muscle, populated by taxless moles and pimples. Soft. Two boys see what we’re doing, inching their way to get a better view. Soft. Her hand on my waist, sliding the belt through its rings. Soft. The buzz of a fly that got in when we entered. Soft. Her panties, rolled all the way down, I untangle myself from the jungle. Soft. Cats fucking, their wails resonating songs of memory and will. Soft, soft, soft. My eyes glue themselves on the odometer, it remains silent, fixed to zero, motionless activity. Soft as white winds purvey. A locked door and two people pretending to enjoy themselves.



Tarot card from the Rider-Waite tarot deck, al...