Huma RojoCharles Jensen
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.
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