Juan Israel Espanol

 Chamber Music


There –
The other side. One lane leading backwards toward
the window ahead. I’ll open it just enough if you –
promise not to shove me out. Even though I might
enjoy the rush of feeling close to some ending.
The freedom within the fall. It’s the crash I’d mind.
The mess of it and stiff neck. The swelling and swollen
eyes. Impacting, colliding, a plume of smoke, the belt
being yanked back tight – across our laps. Shattered
pieces of tinted glass screaming and showering across
our closed eyes and smiling faces. Followed by –
that bitter taste. The shock in understanding that yes
we have survived but not everyone else has. Bodies are
slumped over the dashboard, broken wheeled columns.
Bones and dislocated orgasms.


We’ve survived –
but not everyone else has. The driver and the passenger
riding shotgun all good and gone but Leonore, you are
so beautiful and to me It was sad thinking about you –
in the back seat of anything. You never being in control.
Your edges covered in the curves you wear so well, until
now. It was all a Sunday night ride, until now. Until you
heard the engine being gunned. Day turned into night.
The streets slicked with oil and spring rain. The music –
loud, loud, louder and I have a deepening blood mouth
full of lust crush on you. It’s a dark, dark line tonight and
darling you and your pencil skirt are on my mind.


I’m thinking about –
those strangers lying next to us in bed. The lies crawling
out of their mouths like insects in the yard. Streetlights –
flashing by fast while someone screams from the speakers
that are drowning out the cello in your heart. The one
being played within the chamber of that gun you’ve been
so careful to point only at your own temple. And I swear:
She might blow herself apart just to understand –
what she might be feeling. I can hear you talking and trying
to give directions. Despite your pretty mouth being –
sewn shut, and shit It is almost funny. Just don’t blame me
for your silence. You held your own needle and thread Sally.
I can’t handle the poor treatment angle, I can’t stomach –
watching the cuts until you’re all done. Bleed it all away if
it helps. I’ll even bring a mop. But you clean up the mess.
So maybe later or never. I’ll make a believer out of you yet.
Someone had sliced off both of the drivers ears long before
you came along anyway.


It’s a mad, a mad violent classical ride –
One where we were never driving. Perhaps for the best.
Now we can claim innocence. Dress in white, dress in black,
call ourselves lovers and fumble around in the dark nervous
again. It was the last red light that did us in. Someone ran it
and since that moment, that line, we’ve been unsteady –
waiting for headlights. The rev. The rpm. Rushed metal, bricks, staccato and what was the back seat is now the trunk. You’re
doe eyed, sexed and slightly bound unnerved by twilight and
silence. Your wind section busted. Cello shards stuck in your
throat as you open up finally trying to speak until I cover your
mouth and say let’s be quiet. Untie the ropes so we can sit
for a while. Stare a little at the wreckage while considering
the sirens that will never come. Rescue lights heading –
everywhere else but here. So we walk away and by the way,
I like you in a way that matters. The scratches across your cheek, nerves and nerves. Broken shell shocked beauty. I imagine
the walk home will be nice. We could smile like villains –
while we dry on your bed, under candlelight and a digital clock.
Eat cold strawberries, share stellar kisses. As after that all of this
I imagine everything will taste beautiful.

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