Huma Rojo

In Madrid, hounded by autograph seekers; "Drive,"
I say to the taxi. My lover titters like a bird
for its junk. She is barely
in her body: I smell her hover
just above the skin—
copper, tangelos, baby powder—
the smell takes me in a cloud. "Drive,"

I say
to the taxi. My lover with black hair.
At the window, in streaks of rain, a boy's face
ripples. A pencil. His eyes
drip; her body next to me hums as she
slips in and out the membrane of her dry, scaly skin.
I say, "Drive." We round

the corner—in Madrid, rainy night—and later,
just some seconds, the lover opens her lips.
The screech of tires in that breath; her teeth
grate shrilly down the street like an alley cat
nipping her young by the neck
before they drown.