I sit at the bar with him,
as he smacks black
lips at fresh – faced bitches.
Red eyes and gritted brown teeth
answer my cleared throat. Stalking
to the toilet, I hear
“I put a spell on you/ cause you’re mine…”
The voice knocks me in the spine, the brass
trombone becoming my frenetic pulse.
I can smell his smoke, midway from the bar,
from the lavatory. But when I open my mouth
the blaring horn fills it.
I’m looking at myself, a raspy, throaty singer
drowning the smoke with honeyed magma.
The song ends. The horn leaves me.
The smoke returns. I retreat.