Your Own Lecherous Heart

Gabrielle Freeman

          — title from Dives and Pauper, Anonymous

I imagine you cruising the boulevard at two

a.m. in your dead mother’s car, watching the girls

sway out of the bars, hands resting on the soft curves

of their girlfriends’ waists, mouths open and laughing, your view

of the tops of their breasts and pink push-up bras enhanced

by their mirth. They are bending for you. Long, tanned legs

engender a gentle swing of skirt; their hair begs

to be touched. Dick in hand, you quiver at each glance.

Their brightly colored faces trail like sparklers

on a hot night. Lithe bodies leave a primordial

scent of amber and cloves. Their eyes, their skin, fire

only for you. You believe everything is yours,

and you take it. Pink and pliant, your mouth, your tongue

like flayed salmon, gills flushed with blood; your long fingers,

your sex deep within body after body. Their flesh sings

for you. Naked, you drive and watch, drive and hunt.

The hole inside you is deep and black. I imagine

blue lights strobing, the officer’s face as you roll down

the window, dilate into that bright light, a hint of frown

furrowed between your clear eyes, your wide sheepish grin.

As you confess, I imagine your skin lit up blue

like lividity, your body dead as the soul

you keep trying to revive, paying the ferryman toll

after toll in skin, but still drowning.

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