Mi Zona 8

That moment when a new drink arrives at the table,
a poke in conversation,
another nudge toward silly afternoon bliss,
undrunk glasses.
The bump in enthusiasm and forgetfulness, 
when the music subsides for a welcome intermission,
and the words from her mouth are clear and soft
and invigorate the cold night and the brown trees that scratch 
the window,
and you eat them.
You notice her neck and the shape of her ear,
and the black hair that slides over her eye,
and then the hopelessness. 
She'll be like a limp sparrow tomorrow, fallen 
in the grate of the sewer.
But you drink your drink and wonder why she's not
drinking hers
and that maybe it's because she's slipped into that perfect
sentimental bliss that friends scoff at during the 
the business of life,
bustling and teeming 
with frothing, toothy predators.
And you feel it too, a petrifying warm monster that 
curls up next to you, wanting to kill you. 
But you turn to embrace it again,
because you can't help it. 













One thought on “Mi Zona 8

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s