Vieux Carre

That smooth Cajun drawl was the fold of flesh 

where neck meets brooding shoulder like the skin of a ripe peach smelled like cognac liquor and red beans and rice and your lips like parliaments and Italian cologne on my twintail braids 

And your spit like cum

And your spirit like 

                                         The Damned 

And your kiss 

goodbye tucked me in like you tucked

a 45 in your clearance rack waistband 

and I knew 

that was my cue to leave 

and my 

                raison de revenir