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  • Busted Maracas

    Drumming saunters in all naked; nestled in the arms of a lover;
    just came busting in uncoiling the air with precision,
    the room… so heavy, falls under a spell from all that love making,
    and these hips of mine, they melt into the bench holding me.
    A guitar stretches out those long, sassy strings,
    the pick… she pounds out a tempo, claiming the sultry sound;
    she’s like scarlet lipstick and platinum hair all wrapped up in silk.
    and that thunder… it pulses… it pushes at my ribs.
    And then that old sway just sneaks right up
    snatching at the beat, but she hangs on real loose-like.
    John the Baptist would take these bare feet slapping against the knotty pine
    and he’d put them right back in their cage.
    But he won’t come near me tonight.
    No.
    Tonight…
    I move like some poor ole girl who’s tied down and near possessed,
    tonight,
    I gnaw at my ropes.
    Someday I’m gonna get up off of this bench.
    I’ll make these tight, fired-up fists unfasten…
    I’ll pound them and split the air
    just like I used to when I could siphon out the night.
    I’ll move through the rhythm
    scattering it like a handful of maracas
    all busted up… the innards spilling out.
    But tonight
    my bones will just keep knocking up against my warm skin.
    One day I’m going to get up off of this bench
    hot…
    and start a new fire.

    By Pamela Wilonski
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