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January |
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a poem by Angela S. Patane (1 of 2)
Let's Flee
Your feet make me want to slow dance
in socks, on our wood floors
your hands, a clam around my waist.
Your fingers make me want to fuck
in broad day light: a church lot, cracked
car windows peeking skin to passing strangers.
Your mouth makes me want to rob a supermarket,
kiss through ski masks, grab cash
from each register, empty revolvers into the afternoon.
Your voice makes me want to hot wire a car,
an El Camino, drive it high to a marina in Palm Beach
sail a stolen yacht stocked with food, booze,
water, weed and sun block into international waters
catch, cook fish we find
on our way to a tropical isle three miles wide. Your love
makes me want to eat kelp when the cargo runs out
sun ourselves until we’re native: mermaid, merman--
the island's only inhabitants.
in socks, on our wood floors
your hands, a clam around my waist.
in broad day light: a church lot, cracked
car windows peeking skin to passing strangers.
kiss through ski masks, grab cash
from each register, empty revolvers into the afternoon.
an El Camino, drive it high to a marina in Palm Beach
sail a stolen yacht stocked with food, booze,
catch, cook fish we find
on our way to a tropical isle three miles wide. Your love
sun ourselves until we’re native: mermaid, merman--
the island's only inhabitants.