We walked barefoot over the sidewalks shimmering with the heat of a Florida summer. Hot lust infuses my feet, up through my legs, my calves, into my thighs, up into my arid, lonesome womb. I licked the sweat off her Italian skin.
I wrap myself in his hair to keep me warm. I wanted to brush it, to French braid it, to adorn him with rare flowers, and make the serpent delicate and tame.
I knew what
he was before
we (I wish we n)ever kissed.
My psyche is cracked as my mother’s wedding china, and I jabbed his asshole with the pieces. He bled like the faggot in my dream, but this long-haired serpent is as straight as sobriety, straight as the hard lines of masculinity, and I, the fragile, semi-demi-un-woman, tremble and shake as I hide behind cigarette smoke and hypersexuality. Where was this going? Where were we headed?
She and I will never travel down the lusty pavement again.
I will never pick flowers for his hair.
I will sleep peacefully. Maybe