by Samantha Lê

On the last train from the city, 
she sat across the aisle and talked 
about sex-having 
saints. Images 
like tobacco juice dripped
into your ears. Nothing has hurt 
as good since.  

Your fingers pricked 
Spanish notes from the dampness 
between her breasts.
Your tongue followed 
vowel sounds into her mouth, 
but at Jack London Square, you got off 
and left her. 

Long ten blocks home. 
Your hands played with more 
than the loose 
change in those deep pockets—
the clinking and clanking; 
the squeaking 
of rubber soles pressed 
into the hard sidewalk. 
Red light signaled. 
Neon sign flashed CLOSED.

___


First published in The Red Clay Review (Kennesaw State University), Kennesaw, GA, Spring 2011, pp. 8.