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| A Young Woman Swimming |
writhes and screeches in the mud
with tobacco-chewing rednecks.
This flawless spectacle
inflames the caverns of my mind.
Aroused, I kneel and beg her
for a taste of her newborn vices.
She reaches out to me,
but I’m a prowler, a fierce hunter
and do not care for this debauched
young woman.
Apple scent fills the reeds.
She promises me the remnants
of her tattered modesty,
then she leads me to a diner
in the town’s backstreets.
I ask for a plate of almond croissants
with a skinny latte but she tells me
in her inn, there is only food for real
men and the bitterest of coffees.
Green fever clouds her eyes.
We take a bottle of rye bourbon
and rush upstairs to her bed.
We struggle until her final whimpers
snap the thread and the hunt is over.
Who was the hunter, and who was the prey?
No one knows to this day but it is clear
to me now, this young Madonna
was not born to sing the Blues, and I was
only an out-of-town drifter who was lost
on his way to Memphis.
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