A Year After Her Father Died
by Travis Blair

I picked her up at the airport
the day she flew in from L.A.
and drove her to the cemetery
where she burned Sho-ko incense.
Later we stopped at Dickey’s,
bought her father’s favorite ribs,
took them back to my place—
a studio apartment so cramped
we sat on the balcony to eat
and reminisce about his life.
Afterwards, we slipped inside,
watched seasons of Nikita.
She took off all but her panties,
unpinned her hair and let it fall.
I poured a Chilean Cabernet.
She wouldn’t make love to me,
claimed she’d come out of the closet,
but she sprawled on my bed
showing off her perfect breasts
and commented on how sexy
Maggie Q looked. At the end
of each episode, she leaned in
and bit me on the upper arm.
My biceps were purple bruises
by the end of season two.

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