Coïtus interruptus. Spanish oak moss
and cicadas. Chronic heat. Unease deep
in singed Sierra hills. True. That chaos
sex I brought wasn’t fun. Gnawing deep creep
of dusk, faces at the window, the, “scritch,”
of nails unseen on your skin. At long last
you kicked me out. I could sleep with, “the witch,”
you said. Your mom, pure, “bruja,” loved all vast
pleasures elder gods brought. I was neither.
A child of dry heat. Mesquite. Chaotic
sex soon lured you back to lurk, still sullen,
as the witch got lip-lapped. “Voy a venir!”
you could hear your mom shout. Your fingers slick.
Even the creeping dread stopped to listen.
Bruja means witch and “Voy a venir!” translates into “I’m cumming!” in Spanish.