STRANGERS ON A BUS

When we met, she was hanging
from the beveled cornice of dream
and let slip her penchant for tawdry
affairs with one-armed men. Her confidence
had the texture of hand-cranked ice cream.

Having never unfolded a bodice or slid
my hand down the crescent of another’s hip,
I was blissfully unaware
that such preference could exist anywhere
other than a Quentin Tarantino film.

My ignorance emboldened her. She produced
a saw from her knapsack, bit her lip,
exposed her underwear.
As we opened ourselves like suitcases, her bus-trembled
breasts muffled my screams. We unfolded

each other like luggage arriving. Between destinations,
the interstate hummed its constant chorus.

#The rupture rises like a fire. Sings like a dream. Then swepts like a bucket full of water.