The ***** house entryway
was lit up like Christmas Eve.
Two women lounge on stone benches
offering bored smiles between cigarettes
to each passer-by with an empty wallet.
Mosquitoes kiss stagnant water,
hover at their exposed ankles.
******* dress reflects her cellphone halo;
only ghosts of love are alive in these streets.
The Police know not to come.
For the married men
they are cheaper than divorce,
a scratch-off ticket-
like betting on a horse.

Red dress takes a stab at English
taught by her mother
to draw my attention.
Speaks just like my students
and looks no older.
Only came out for dinner
but the weekend is alive:
the sight of her lipstick and stockings
salts my hunger.
I stop in my tracks.
Sound of distant thunder,
I offer my name
and a drink;
she offers me shelter.

Leads me by the hand
beneath the fairy lights
into the dingy bar
of bad karaoke and
football on the big screen.
I order whiskey sours
and we sit at a table
playing games of conversation
over the ashtray as I stumble through
my sentences.
She plays with my fingers,
tells me I am her favourite;
that tonight
she is willing to kiss.

On the second drink
her black eyes covet mine.
Swollen in longing,
I tell her she is the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen
without a word of lie.
Though she blushes
and plays with her perfect hair
I know there is nothing I can say
she has not heard one thousand times.
Leads me by the hand,
places mine on her hips
as she turns to face me
in the half-lit room.


We hesitate.
I kiss her collarbones, her neck,
work my way to her lipstick;
kiss her ******* the mouth.
She deadens in my grip,
begins to work at my belt.
In the half-light we close our eyes-
she becomes flesh,
I become paper,
knowing these were the cards we were dealt.
She pulls on my hair,
when I finally surrender
she speaks softly in English;
she moans in Thai.

Laid exposed in the aftermath
she draws her painted fingernail
across the outline of my tattoo.
Asks for the meaning
but does not understand the answer.
We linger for a moment
before reality resumes
and the illusion is over.
She leads me by the hand
to the funeral wake of the weekend streets.
The storm is over.


Pollution blots out the stars.
She says farewell.
I say

see you next week.