The Dreaming Season

He's beautiful,
his dark skin gleaming,
his green eyes, and forked tongue.
My dress sticks to my back, and the
scorched earth grass prickles
beneath my feet, the sky an endless blue.
He twines around me, a cold band
where our skins touch.
Out on the ridge, a bush burns.

~

I clutch him to my chest,
my own, body of my body,
flesh of my flesh:
wrinkled skin smoothing out
grey hair turning brown
there's a word for this
I think, but it dances on the
periphery
I never wanted this I think
but it's here
now what now what
is the word
I know it

~

In the not quite light
I pick my way across the litter
to the shop
with a tattered yellow paper menu
tacked to the wall
come with me she says
and grabs my hand
I don't know who you are
I stammer
don't you she asks
her teeth gleaming
in the grey light
as she leads me on
Her friends stare
from across the table
It's not what you think
I say
I'm sorry I'm not
She holds my hand
I'll be back I say
I need some tea
I'll leave my bag here
is that ok
sure she says
and turns away
her lips are red
like the flowers on her dress
the boy selling the tea
says five rupees
but I have no coins
that's okay he says
there's time to pay
later
when I walk back
she's gone,
they're gone,
so is my bag
with everything I am
in it.