The berth of the distant road calls
slow your roll, but bald tires speed,
racing alongside outcroppings of wisteria,
one length behind a waxing, alabaster moon.
Pull aside, woman, pull aside.
Stopped. Body rigid, belly flat.
First she opens the car door, then
soaked linen, button by pearl button,
laying bare dew-drenched skin.
Visions of an icon, the Black Madonna.
Heat slathers over her extremities
like wax, a hot steam descends
stripping the irritating
vestiges of a dog-day drive.
Pull aside, woman, pull aside
the moist cotton between
your thighs. Sponge clean
your sacrifice to the night.
Rivulets of love roux run dry.
“I am the Black Madonna.”
She murmurs as mania leaps,
twirls between her shoulder blades.
Exhausted, she squats beneath a live oak.
With nature’s ink, she draws shadows
in the dust—a future that will never dry.