Daniel removes all subtlety from the proposition.
“You’re a God-fearing American
so I know I can trust you,” he says.
Zola is on the couch next to me.
The flavor of her ankle,
so close and teasingly exposed,
draws my imagination and shortens my breath.
“Don’t believe in dreams,” she tells me
in her rosemary marmalade voice.
“They are all lies, you know.”
But I don’t know.
All I have left are the shadows of an illusion that once
“Where did you hear this?”
“Fuck Daniel. And fuck his American God.”
“Zola dear,” Daniel chuckles and snorts,
“restrain yourself. Our guest is flustered.
Here my friend a drink,” he tempts me
with his locust hands extending me a glass. “A drink.
Yes, we have big plans. For you, for us.
But Zola ignoring his demands
stretches out her leg so
“Would you like to play with me?
We can be children again
and you can collapse on my cherry stone
my maple love.”
A sleepy ragtime chills the room.
I mistake it
for the onset of winter.