On The Way To Ship Island 
My temperamental hot tamale
blows a speaker and Clapton
sinks down into a very warped,
very static death.
Sailor swearing, I pull over on I-10,
the last place kids are seen before
they end up on the backs of milk cartons,
the last place I'd want to be stranded
with Simon Ivanov in the front seat
wondering how long our first date will last.
Two hours ago, he was harmless.
He blew in, French as a ring of cigarette smoke,
corrected my terrible geography
with the spice of an accent
that could only come from Macedonia.
Almost immediately, he became my mentor
in the Indian art of Kama Sutra.
This recent enchantment died on the side of the highway, however,
and was replaced with the image of the
gun that would emerge from his swimming trunks (miraculously).
I'd be found decayed and toothless
two years later by some Doberman
broken loose from the backyard
of a trailer in Hancock County.
Simon Ivanov wrapped his
arms around me,
waited for the wave of fear to crest,
dissolve into a ripple.
Then, he stained me
into shades of watercolor pink
with a kiss to the side of my cheek. |
