She is not sliding off a cliff stepping into the man’s red car. She is not falling like a
Silk porous unbearable hot dusk broken by the murmur. His car engine runs like open
Water, I’m stuffed he says, groping loosely his stomach. Thanks for dinner she says.
It was really liberating, he smiles, daylight but a moon is dropped like a low pearl open
Scent of shoals and evenings. A telephone pole dominates the raw blue. His hands
Brush her face. Chest pulses. His mouth is warm like gasoline and wood. Sitting in a
Room of his own. Her fabrics blush against the wounded seats. Underneath the skin
Is bare. Wordless or dumb. The man in the red sweet car. His eyes spindle at
Various attentions. Goodnight. Shut door. Evening is spilled onto the woman’s
Bedroom window like a milk. Clutch her pillow, her head rattles like a fecund car
Engine. The man’s face bounces across her soft canals. Her face trembles. She
Runs to the sink. In the mirror her face is hell. A water. Don’t know.
Vanessa Saunders is the editor-in-chief of Helium Journal. Originally from the San Francisco Bay Area, she is currently an MFA candidate at LSU. She has previously been published in Stockholm Literary Review, Lighthouse journal, Haight Ashbury Literary, and others.