Genelle Chaconas has a BA in Creative Writing from CSUS and an MFA in Writing & Poetics from Naropa University. She serves as head editor for HockSpitSlurp Literary Magazine.
It could come from any window, at night, at noon, on swollen hallucination fire escapes, in sticky fumbling alleyways, from rooftops, between buildings, around the corner. It could be at your window, cracked open, motor running, the night air fans across your lovers’ musk skin, hand in their hair, fingers struggling, popping zippers, black brassieres. Don’t go out. He’s out there. It could be you next.
A cigarette burning perched on the silver ashtray last embers clinging dull red to its cherry a deck of worn cards scattered across grubby green velvet two stained black silk gloves wrist length one shot glass another in four pieces one spiked heel pump at the top of the stairs the other in the gutter an old record skipping six bullet casings empty rattling like hail.
Down the alleyway at the end of the world, which are any, which are all the easy ways home, right around the corner, its not too late, I’ll just be a minute, I promise its safe, I have my phone on me, nothing happens around here, don’t be silly, you watch too many movies, I’ll be right back.
The long black car, its perfect curves and contours, waxed to a strict perfection, all ancient rich leather gleaming chrome appears in the driveway, no one behind the wheel, lights on, engine on, the door swung wide towards you. Cigar smoke and champagne laughter pours from it. A record plays. An opera glove, carrying a clean lavender perfume, reaches for your tie and collar, then pulls.