She wrapped her hair around her face
like a black handkerchief —
pulled it over her shoulder like a cloak
when she came in.
Her cheeks candy-apple red,
she walked toward the air-conditioner,
lifted her shirt and pressed
her bare, pokey breasts
up against the vents.
Her breath smelled like watermelon
Now and Laters and her tongue
was scarlet from sucking on them —
We wedged ourselves into
a Victorian accent chair in the den
and she offered me her chilled skin
though her mouth, when it joined with mine,
felt more like something moist
from the oven — maybe a warm confection.