John Camacho





She was the ghost of a murdered trophy-bride,
Charlize Theron-statuesque with a Peter
Pan haircut and she wanted me
to avenge her death, or at least point the finger
at her middle-aged widower who was drooling in Paradise
Diner at an under-age waitress named Melody
but I was asleep and ready
as a titillated jackrabbitóso I only wanted release
and more than happy to oblige, she made me
realize: Faith will not leave me.
Sprinkle her face with seedburst, blossoms
of lost potential falling on her skin like sticky rain.
And she wasnít going to judge me but she was
counting on me to follow through
my end of our arrangement
and she was patient. Patient to the point
of shadowing everywhere I went,
whispering in my ear, Iím here. Iíll wear
your spent future as war paint and I wonít go away.
You canít banish meótell your truth or donít.


Copyright © 2004 John Camacho.  All Rights Reserved.


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