Ghazal

Lips spit out syllables, mouths meld

around words. It feels good to say dirty words

sometimes. The dirtiest word I know is your name.

 

“There’s a criminal escaped from jail,” he says. Mug shot mug shot

flip the channel, mug shot again. Black and white. Some numbers.

A man’s face, two eyes like shallow holes. “Al Palmer. Some name.”

 

They had made the appointment together and had thought

long and slow about the unwinding of it all. They had made it

together, but she went alone to tell the receptionist her name.

 

Cars night traffic wet roads reflecting light shiny and black

slicked like oil a sea of shadows shatters into blinding bumpers

tires leave a dead dog on the yellow line with no name.

 

We met somewhere in the dark; a poorly lit alley, a smoky basement,

the bouncer’s shadow. I forget. I let him touch me and bathe my skin in the

basin of him mouth. Soft animal sounds. Skinny hips. I forget his name.

 

Graveyard graveyard, a place where time slows, souls suspended

like insects trapped in amber. Storm clouds bruise an old October sky.

One headstone stands slated, anonymous; rain erased the name. 

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About jbernsteinwrites

I enjoy writing, reading, watching movies, listening to music, cuddling, eating, drinking (a wide variety of liquids), and waking up in the morning.
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