mourning like a wolf in the lunar rain, like the widow
left with a bible of photographs by the fire. She
used to play soft jazz at the cabaret, used to kiss me softer after
a night with the girls. She used to place bets for cigarettes that would
burn night after night, a menorah on her lips, hallelujah.
I last saw her eyes in the November sky, acidic and dazzling
like copper ablaze. Her gaze was set on Lexington at midnight where we
would escape on rainy nights, so I followed her lead, laying down
in the highway median as America rolled by. It was where
I first kissed her, tasted iron and wine, and felt the rush of desperate hands.
From her lips on my chest, she whispered a curse to me—something biblical,
a phrase twisted and gnarled between tongues and teeth and heavy breath.
Say it with me. Before life runs out, say I love you.
Between smoking lips, between hips and burning skin, say it.
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