He says what happens between us stays here,
he in burnished leather boots and his fancy car.
We ride straight desert highways with the top down,
his hand on my thigh; he’s wearing the biggest grin.
Me, soaking in tans, browns, sunbeats in big sky.
We stop for gas near the border. Senoritas smile,
shy under their long lashes. They know his name.
He tips his hat, smiles as gravel spits. I crack open
the tequila and take a sip. He cranks the radio to
Hank as we drive into blaze that fills the horizon.
Neon swirls from the chilled ink we glide through,
calling us to a tiny motel with attached cantina.
We dance fast; then slow, slow, slow; then we go
to the threadbare room with a rabbit ear teevee.
Cool night air feels so right on hot, hot, hot skin.
Sun beats through the window.I cover my head,
my thighs still wet, body one big throbbing bruise.
Arm slaps to find emptiness. I shower; get dressed.
Sipping fresh hot coffee in the cantina, the senorita
says he left at dawn. I eat an omelet waiting for the bus.
What happened between us stays here, in my head.
We’re still cruising straight desert highways, top down,
Hank on the radio, he with the biggest grin and me
still soaking in tans, browns, sunbeats in big sky.
Warmed, eyes closed, I smile from my death bed.
Carrie is today’s host of The Sunday Muse.