I loved that smile-scar of her C-section;
and yes, that boast of hers — that she once bucked

some guy out of bed when she came, that none
could hold her hips still — was all true. I sucked,

hard. My fingers went deep, and then curved up.
She was far above me as I knelt down

in her mom’s trailer. She ran, like syrup,
honeyed. It was noon but her Sear’s nightgown

was wet where my mouth had been. Her tattoo
shivered. Her nails dug in. She screamed. This bruise

is from then. The TV was on. I pried
my hand free. Her baby, somehow, slept through

it in the next room. Suddenly the news
said that Ella Fitzgerald had just died.