The green is vibrant,
emerald, wet from rain,
the backdrop to her climb
over the fallen log with her dog,
down to the stream, where she
stares at the water for a moment,
perhaps remembering something,
and there in that half-smile
is the moment for which
he has been waiting,
a girl flashing in the lightning
of his private imaginings—
someone he could
liberate—
lone little wanderer, navigating the
the stump, peering down at
the mutt who is backing up
to do his business against the bushes,
and the feeling is stronger now.

Should he tie her thin wrists with the
duct tape, once and twice around,
like a graceful dance…the ballroom
mechanics of something far more
intimate than snatching; it is the
waltz of possession; the slow motion
tango of the taken,
and now his hand is on the button
sliding the window down, letting in
the air of anticipation, scent of
possibilities
contemplating the inevitable
collision of
she
and
he….

only, there is the dog
between them,
and the dog can’t dance. The dog
has too many legs to do the
box step or Lindy Hop lively to the left,
and he could wrestle her away,
force little girl fists to unclasp
the leash and the rope would
drop but would
the dog put up a fight? Resist
even after the first kick, perhaps a quick
discouraging flick with the hunting knife
from the glove compartment beneath
the fast food napkins?
Terrible that the trick mingling of their eight
legs would lead to tangles too thick
to weave this spider’s web, and
someone might see the awkward
angle of their steps. The hiccup of rhythm
stuttering over the careful composition
of their confrontation.

She looks up as he looks over.
Catches his eye, sees the way he is watching
closely, mouth open, as if he might be
stopping to ask for directions only,
he’s been parked there a while, and he can see
the way her eyes widen. Startled at first, and then
suspicion flooding in so quick
she turns from smiling, laughing, dog companion
to
watchful frown and leaden feet,
fumbling in the pack
dangling from her back,
prying at the zipper, slipping the leash to the left,
digging out a small black box, which looks
ominous, a collection of
keys jingling in the sudden stillness—
turns, takes a quarter-step:
he admires her grace as
she moves in a half moon,
dancing a mid-cycle lunar circumference to his
rapid heart beating, dry mouth, vigilance.

He could swing wide the car door, move
quickly toward her…pull her into the back
blanket-covered upholstery,
situate her gently, hand to mouth, whisper words
of firm encouragement—
but before his foot falls,
she is past
still juggling
still looking
still knowing the
unknowable.

And her key slides true the first hit.
No awkward fumbling. No dropping
down to dig in the crumbling rock to reclaim what
shaking fingers have a right to relinquish.
There is only a perfect orchestration of
car door opening, dog leaping,
door slamming, engine humming
all while he has moved to the back,
hydraulic lift,
slow and methodical.
There is no rush
to remove his jacket, folding
it neatly, laid in the trunk
next to nylon rope,
16-mil brown tarp,
2-inch duct tape
—he could
be business man on lunch break,
napping in the park; he could be
salesman on a long leg carrying
encyclopedias or vacuums
and
she is hastening away from bad nerves,
over-active imagination, too many late-night
horror movies, or those women on Oprah who
said if only they’d followed their intuition,
she is moving on from nothing but
innocent dusty volumes or Tupperware
or a briefcase filled with spreadsheets
and a father’s day tie with
yellow mustard trimming.
She is backing away from destiny,
rolling past her chance to be
what he could make of her
in the taking.

“There is another life
beneath the one you see here,”
she says, smiling, and then she
hands the bartender a tip.
She hasn’t bought a drink in
three months. Not since the weather was
warm enough for short
skirts and these
high-rise boots, as if the bones of her
long legs and slender thighs hold magnets
for marrow, drawing the dollars
from their pockets and their fingers,
fumbling awkwardly, for what might
be hidden beneath her
short-sleeved, bright pink sweater.

Only then, at the base of this bourbon red-orange
glow, is she Alice gone through the looking-glass,
to the other world,
into the black back streets of a bleak midnight
and down the alley, inviting the stray cats to
clamber and creep along the wet
hard angle of where her walls touch
puddled pavement.
Unconcerned about the riff and the
raff that will sniff behind her,
the cardboard spilling over the dumpster,
that dim, green hulk she skirts and milk crates
cuddle together, castaways from the liquor store.

The shadows flutter, forming the shape
of men the same way that darkness sometimes comes,
etched in the bottom of a glass as
a collection of smooth corners,
bones that line up in the sharp points of peach knuckles.
Their thoughts are made of muscle, and tendon, and
bent over, lurching and feeding on weakness, drinking
in the fear she bleeds onto sheets, and carpets, and
sidewalks—sometimes empty streets or the backseat of
a rusted Chevy. They are the engine that stalls;
the ghost of sorrow; the things
she knew from before and also the things
unknown—these constructs littering barstools like mushrooms
sprouting in the hardened body of dead soil.

She slips in and out, always unable to divide
the god from the devil—
that which she kisses, lightly,
on the forehead, or the shadows
that shove her, nose first, into the pillow—
this bleak, cloudless veil between sleeping
and waking, fading,
she only hears the steady click of her
heel on the concrete; sees the long, graceful
arch of her shadow trailing the brick, tracing out the
slow bounce, the seductive roll of her hips.

Then her pre-dawn dance, unsteady steps back to 7:00am
cereal and bus stops and kissing the pink cheek of a child
who needs tennis shoes; these tears are
prayers to Oshun,
river goddess reigning over back alley mothers
with mouths to feed and yellow robes slipping off
into neon puddles—she is
cool cloth on fevered flesh,
a weeping woman who prays that her
daughter knows only the brightness of peacock feathers,
the sweetness of honey;
that her looking glass holds
pure water, which knows no enemy.

He will tell you he is
a man of exquisite taste,
hundred percent Italian silk
imported Egyptian lace—
he is NOT funkin’ “just for kicks.”
No, his love is a terminal case.

What you are wearing
to his critical eye,
makes the difference between
a ride on the back of his bike and
ending up alone for the night.
He will take you down to
old man Johnson’s farm,
slip beneath clouds threatening storms,
he’ll recommend head coverings,
trade in helmets for raspberry berets—
and then, somewhere under the blanket
of thunder, the puzzled neighing of horses,
beneath the sound of drops on
barn roofs, he’ll wave his wand
back and forth,
make magic dust,
make you feel like a star,
like THE MOST,
(and no, he wouldn’t change a stroke).

And if you are concerned,
eyes to the sky, wondering at whether
you are properly aligned—
Libra, Virgo, Cancer, Capricorn—
he will reassure you,
there ain’t no particular sign
with which he is more compatible—
and summer or fall? Well,
a love like yours,
it’s never out of season—
but he may plead with you to stop teasing,
claim you’re the best he’s ever had,
convince you he’s a man who’s
got no money,
not like those other men who hang around,
the ones who always let you down.
No, he wants to be the only one
who makes you come
(running),
and even after the marathon,
if you and he were ever naked
in the same machine,
before the heat melts you,
waxing quizzical,
he might be inclined to lick it
(lick what?)
baby, I swear,
he’s gonna connect with you,
joint to joint.

Do not be alarmed
when he asks for a picture
of your mother. It is just
to confirm there’s not another
so supreme—“Darling, damn,”
he will exclaim. You alone
may have the ability to make a rock
give cream, and
from the tip of his typhoon
to the bottom of your ankle chains,
he will bathe in your hips, get close
enough to stick.

But if you get too loud,
well, shh…he’ll make you
break it down.
He’ll tell you love is a
private affair—something to be
done after school,
like homework, or
after everyone’s gone to sleep and
the kitchen table is free.

Oh, you sexy motherfucker!
He’ll get you alone on the Riviera,
in a villa somewhere in France,
(here, he may question your intelligence,
see if you know that’s the SOUTH side)
ask, “Why all the cosmic talk?”
He wants the whole nine,
even with you blindfolded, gagged, bound,
well, it’s still all about the MIND.

In this, he is infinitely qualified.
Your very own first-class flight;
he will take you international,
around the world—
but only if you are a good girl.