Coco

Her mouth,
the elderly smoking section
of a Floridian Chinese restaurant,
is on me without asking
as her hand cradles my head
like an incestuous mother.
Old enough to be just that,
she barely speaks my language,
coos in my ear
these words I can’t make out
that sound-like
distant and distorted cousins
to the ones I know.

Melodramatic moans made
at the slightest of touches,
her skin is smooth
and smells like nothing
but jasmine tea. She stands
in a summer dress, carmine and yellow
like a South Western June
with my hands in her hair,
jet black, jet straight
as I sit on the table
as these arms are pulling me close
like women half her age have
when they have loved less sincerely.