white lines

there was no doubt that when i first saw her that
we would be something forbidden, unlike anything
best thought by the best writer, by the best
artist; she knew how to turn heads her way and
when we would be at her place, she’d take control of the
air, the sounds, the way of living.

“come on, try it, baby,” Emily Varona said.

before me, on her black coffee table, was a line of
white powder sold by the cheapest dealer in all of
the tri-city boundry.

i snorted the white line, reclined back, and exhaled.

“hahahahahahaha, baby … take it slow,” she said.

i looked at her, and, damn it, those eyes were
on me and she knew how to make me smile.

it’s difficult these days for any woman to do that.

some of these women rely on sex
their bodies
their bad humor
their insults
to turn a man in their grave.

Emily knew how to do it
without having
to
force it out
of anyone.

as she finished preparing a white line,
she bent forward,
keeping those devil eyes on me,
and snorted deeply.

she inclined back and let out a holler.

“GOD DAMN IT! YES!”

as i watched her make another and another
and another
and another,
I swore i could hear the neighbors next door
pounding their bodies against one another
and a tinkle of love between us turn gold.