Her Transport by Rp Verlaine



She calls me/ saying I’m her transport/ to escape nothing.
Her arched eyebrows/ makes men defenseless/ she well knows
till we kiss again/ enough to miss/ what’s totally amiss.

Her tongue skewers mine. Till I taste the blood.
Surprised at how fast I welcome it.

The two-step of truth. This shadow dance of lust
all mind games to music with a dead pulse.

We do not stop till the room looks like
a crime scene minus the yellow tape. But I take pictures.
Not that she likes me. I’m only a pit stop
between wrecks in a race. She doesn’t want to pretend
to finish.

Her usual nights 2 cholos fighting over her
in generic named night clubs where narcotics
on the down low meet the overhead.

She tells me she wants a Mexican breakfast
across the border, not that she’s ever known one.
My best answer with her is always maybe.
I hear her dial a lover prison was made for
asking about Tijuana as I leave. It’s another
wound or chip by verbal ice pick. Used to
it I laugh. Thinking an ice statue would be
jealous before it drowns in tears.


©2019 Rp Verlaine


Rp Verlaine has a MFA in creative writing from City College and taught in NY schools for many years. Although he no longer teaches, he continues to write and do photography in NYC. Rp’s most recent poetry collection, Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers was released in 2018.

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