Simone by E Doyle Gillespie (c) 2001

Was it that same night,
with full lips and grace,
you left me for a moment
and drifted by
three brown girls
at the bar,
touching bare
shoulders
and dusting their
hair with imported smoke?
You traced a finger
around
the humming bird
tattoo on that Greek girl°s back.

Was it that same night
you whsipered
across Allison°s
naked frame,
told me to inhale her,
and reminded me
that America fears a
woman°s
cassole more than
any Cuban missle?

Once
(was it that same night?)
you told me to
watch -
drink my drink
and watch -
while you captured
the oval of Jennifer°s
face in your long hands
and joined your mouth to hers.
The party had drifted from
Nina°s,
and Jennifer had just come of age between your thighs.
Legal against your body.
Slender in red leather
and leopard skin.
Unlit Camel.
Undone hair.
Dew glistening on two fingers.

Was it that same night
you covered my
lap with musty curls
and smothered me in
thick, smooth, black glossed
kisses,
drugged me with stolen offeratory candles,
and rolled my name over the
accent of your tongue
three times?
Three times through
your full lips
and Turkish smoke.