by Amy Stone

At the ranch in Buda
we drag a flat-screen TV
out to the enclosed veranda,
plop ourselves onto a rattan sofa
and settle like junks floating
in China Bay on a quiet evening.

Bianca digs out a double feature,
old Charlie Chans from the 30s –
The Black Camel, Robert Young’s
film debut, and Charlie Chan in Egypt,
featuring Rita Cansino before
her name change to Hayworth.

The sky turns the color of gravestones,
our roof shudders beneath rain.
Night drops darkness and lowers
our sails. I don’t care about movie
detectives. I want to be sweet-talked
into something more viral.

I straddle Bianca and let her feel
the whispers of Victoria’s Secret slide
against her knee. Our arousal
is like plugging a Fender into an amp.
And when it ends, we can hear
our blood pulse the way a gong sounds
in a far away temple.

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