Sixth on
By Abba Marie Moreno
The café is always open
for patient souls like mine.
I sit on this reserved
table for two, alone
with the full moon
watching over
the untouched cup
of hazelnut coffee you like so much.
It’s getting cold.
(You never show up.)
The clock strikes ten,
it is time
for me to wait
under the sixth lamppost
of
Whitechapel.
We met there last night, didn’t we?
Perhaps, you remembered,
I remember, I remember so well
that I can almost—
hear your humming hair
sing with the nocturne breeze,
taste your sweet sweet voice
screaming of raw pleasure
from the thrilling games we play.
(Remember, we played Surgeon,
And I put my hand in your—
(The click-clacks
of your high heels
are beckoning me.)
Here you come.
Why can I smell such fear
from your bright blue eyes?
Can’t you remember,
all the good times we had?
Our nights? Our kisses? Our love?
You aren’t
(And you say your name is Mary)
Deny yourself not—to me.
Remember, the divine being you are.
Or remember me, at least.
Perhaps, if I kiss you,
you might remember,
just like in fairytales,
and finally fear will vanish
from your soft eyes
and your trembling lips.
Just let me get a little closer.
Don’t scream, woman!
Mellifluous voices such as yours
should not make awful shrieking sounds.
Stay calm. The world is empty,
‘cept for you and me—
—and this knife.
Don’t worry, I can protect you.
There is no reason to escape.
Stop resisting!
Perhaps a little pain
will catch your /attention;
like we do, as always.
You know, I never enjoy
hurting you like this,
it’s just that
you never learn.
What? You’re crying?
I’ve always told you that
I hate seeing you sad.
Stop it,
Smile,
It’s torture,
Stop crying, please.
Please, it’s hurting me.
Please,
don’t make me do this.
Stop your wailing, bitch!
---
(from left to right)
My light, my love,
What have I done?
Your beautiful smooth neck,
I’ve ruined it (No, the knife did!).
This flowing stream of warm rubies
dripping from your open throat
will always haunt me.
It was your fault,
You made me do it.
Now, the fool moon has
witnessed this tragedy,
And this Romeo has lost
his beloved Juliet.
Perhaps I should follow you
into the valley of death;
then forever, we shall be together.
Your hair, your skin, I shall miss them.
Your face, your legs, your neck,
Your lips, your blood, your eyes—
Your eyes…
are blue.
Ha! How could I have mistaken this wretch,
for my beloved,
Sorry, Lady, honest mistake.
(I am quite unlucky,
this is the third time
this month.)
No matter,
I can always wait for you.
The café is always open
for patient souls like mine.
