She smoked like Raymond Chandler on a tear,
With lips like she'd been eating cherry pie
Real sloppy. I could smell the rotgut rye
Behind her ears, and lilacs in her hair.
Her eyes were working under half-dropped lids,
She took my measure--call it forty-long,
That leaves room for the gat. She hummed a song
Under her breath; we mooned a while like kids,
Her hand in mine like feathers off a dove,
Her voice a tenor sax. I'd like to say
She played so sweet I never felt the knife
Till it was in. But nothing works that way.
At least when she kissed me it felt like love.
I've never been that drunk in my whole life.
"Noir, #28," selected as a finalist in The Formalist's 14th Annual Howard Nemerov Sonnet Competition!
1 comment:
This is the absolute bomb. What an atmosphere you've created in so few words. I can almost see Philip Marlow sidling through the door to kiss those cherry lips before saying, "Farewell, my lovely."
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