Garden party, Ladue, Incan sculpture, pottery from the Amazon, elephant ears, queso blanco, fig jam, baguette, Nescafé, Chopin études, flamenco, castanets echoing from the past, orange marmalade, holding the jar up to the light with both hands, my father's jam, he made this he said missing him, pointing to the void, to orange to sweet to golden to sticky, long ago gone. Later, pictures on the fridge, dashing in his fedora, Papa had style, mi casa es tu casa, milady of the highway. Tu pussy, this jam, is delicious. Which one? Both. Together? Tu pussy es mi pussy, say it. Mi pussy es tu pussy. Ricissimmo. Look at me!
Tell me how you saved him, my cousin, you dove in? No; I screamed. La petit mort. Almost. He was 4, I was 6. Birthday party dress, little girl pretty, wanted to show my daddy, down at the pool. Crinoline, taffeta, petticoats: they pumped his chest, a plume of water squirted from blue lips. He was floating? No, he had sunk, sunken treasure, reaching for a toy he fell in, all the way in. Let me tip you, just tip you. It caught my eye, forlorn plastic toy, bobbing, ripples, ripples from what? On the very bottom, he was splayed face down, arms and legs akimbo, not troubling the water. I can't imagine, if you hadn't come along. If you hadn't come along.
No one saw him fall, no one heard the splash, the adults preoccupied, pool-time, flirting, mahjhong. The lifeguard, Ian was his name, magic tricks, quarters out of nostrils, nickels from ears. Your penis, that scar. How does a man get a scar like that? Fucking in the ocean, mi amor. Saltwater, friction. It must have hurt you to keep going like that. Excruciation, worth every thrust. Don't stare; it's so ugly, ragged. No, valiant. Both of us, water heroes. Your curves, all woman, your kisses so generous. Let me shave, I'm too scruffy. Better? Better. Oh, those panties. How pretty, silky, see-through, thank you, my head is exploding. We'll come together this time, I'm certain, in gushes.
Don't bite me. I'm sorry, carried away, marking you. My breast! Get ice. Are you going to do it? Do what? What you said you'd do. What did I say? I don't remember. That you'd suck my cock in every room in your house. Haven't I already? Not your studio. No, not there. I'm going to let the dog go, let him run. There's no fence, if he's lost or hurt, it'll ruin everything, all our time together. Doesn't matter. I want him to taste freedom, even bloodied. Like me.
Put some cream on my face? Of course, your skin's so dry. Just my forehead, under my eyes, the bridge of my nose. Does all my hair bother you? Bother me? You called me lupine. No. But sometimes I wish. What do you wish? That I could rest my cheek on your bare chest, feel your beating heart on my face. Shall we shave it? Yes, we'll cut it first, a weird harvest, chest hair in grayscale: the whole spectrum. In a moment; I'll get newspaper. First let me lick your labia, they're mine, I'm swallowing your clit; come in my mouth, darling. Come. Come. Come.
Your lips curling around my cock, your pussy a perfect fit, like a hundred wet tongues licking my cock. Is it too small? No. What you said before, a perfect fit. How can this be happening, that you came back to Missouri, surely not for me? My hyphenated south-north life doesn't point here, rolling in this honeyed clover redolent of cinnamon. Absurd, me without my pain, my chauffeur. We don't belong; the gods won't suffer it; it will be revoked. Don't stop talking. You know what this is? No, what is this? Rock star sex, backstage. How can you go so long? Are you taking something? No, not even herbs; you bring it. You! Excuse me lady, I believe I'm coming.
Coffee's made. I'll be down. I'll bring it up, to you, my queen of the highway, goddess of Route 67. I have a gig tonight. Stay in town, come see me play. I heard you on the phone, what you said, what you called me. Gringa? Yes. So what? So I'm your Other. And you're mine. How do you call me to your friends—your Latin lover? No! Just. Just what? Just, my lover. Not your man? No. I can be late, I can call in to my boss. Call. From behind, no, the side. Roll over.
A present. From South America. I'll wear it now. In bed, a scarf? I love it, that you bought it for me, that you thought of me there. Did you find mine in your suitcase? Of course. I wore it to death. After, let's make another fire. Did you bring your drum? No. I asked you to. You're my drum. Oh, two drums. Ow! New Years, at the Sheraton, will you be my guest? No. Why not? I don't want to see you like that, formal in a tux, an emcee. Banter, charming everyone. A raffle; I couldn't bear it. There'll be dancing. I don't know how to do your dances, I'll be ridiculous. You have another date? Yes.
A Nobelist, there'll be a party, a fundraiser for their library. How much? One fifty. Krona or dollars? No. Too much. I don't speak Spanish; I've never read him. Have you? Yes, of course. In school, a long time ago. Liar. Wait, I'll lube you. Let me lube you. Are you sore? Never. I...I don't want the world. I did, but I don't anymore. I just want this, my legs in the air, muscled meat of my calves on your chest, ankles framing your ears. Liar.
When you took me to the airport...to New York. Six months ago. You helped get my suitcase. I handed over my keys, you opened the trunk. Giving them back, your thumb grazed my hand. Grazed? You ran the side of your thumb down the length of mine. And? One stroke, that stroke, so confident, so sure. Everything melted away, all difference. Inside, I...I twitched, wanting you. Me too, remember I kissed you? I remember it well. Leaning on the car. Sun in our eyes. What I said, too? Yes? What is? Give me...Qué? Give me a New York kiss. And did I? Yes, you did. Want another one now? No.
But you said. What? I was your power. So I said. And now? You are.