“I don’t want to return there ever again,” she said,

Passing bugs twirling through her ribbons of smoke and fragrance,

Something from a long, thick, phallic bottle with its rounded stopper.

It was so hard to open unless you pulled on it just right,

With quick, tight movements repeated from hands made soft,

By fancy hand cream coming out white and warm on the tips of her fingers.

It was far too hot there for anything but slow and easy does it,

Sleeping naked with the fruit flies waltzing on her pale skin,

From her breasts to her stomach and the curve of her throat.

Beads of sweat glistening diamonds in a line up high between her thighs--

But no- no, she sat up and ran, never to return again to that shuttered house,

Out upon that sun-soaked island of sideways waving trees.