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Eastbound Train
copyrighted by Samantha Lê
On the last train from the city that night
she sat across the aisle and talked
about sex-having saints.
Her voice dripped fire-
like tobacco juice
into your ear; nothing has hurt
as good since. You watched your fingers pick
sultry, Spanish notes
from between her damp breasts;
but when the train stopped at Twelve Street,
you got off; left her sitting there.
Long ten blocks from home,
your hands played
with more than the loose change
in those deep pockets—the clinking
and clanking; the squeaking
of soles pressed into sidewalk.
Red light signaled;
the CLOSED neon sign
in the laundromat’s window,
your final answer from god. You unlocked
the door and kissed your wife hello.
We Were Fifteen
copyrighted by Samantha Lê
A boy and girl went down the creek; made love
in poison oak bushes. Low-rise jeans bunched at their ankles, gasping
between hushes.
A boy and girl
went down the creek. A boy and girl went down
the creek.
A new face grew lips
while foxtails whipped.
We were fifteen, finding ourselves
taller than foxtails and wild leeks. A boy and girl went down the creek.
Foxtails threw like ninja stars in foxtail wars.
Foxtails knew the secret we drowned at the muddy banks;
in a brown paper bag were screams;
we didn’t believe in the American dream—
no thanks.
Josh Cembellin—Guilty by Association
copyrighted by Samantha Lê
If I were you Josh Cembellin, I would tattoo my initials
on the back of my neck and make, “It’s J.C., baby,”
my catch-phrase. J.C. for “Jell-O cool”—
cool like a cucumber salad, cool like a watermelon slice —
J.C. for “jellybean chewy,” J.C. as in “Jesus Christ!”
You, Josh Cembellin, with your black beard spiky,
preaching incantations as lessons from god,
are you losing yourself in punctuations? You, learning to speak
without k’s, learning to count by threes, are growing a new tongue.
I see you with the last spoonful of white chowder,
slurping words chunky like potato wedges, gnawing
on sentences like clam bits, taking half-bites from fully-risen
sourdough crusts. If I were you Josh Cembellin,
I would shave my turtle head bald to reflect
my halo back to heaven. I would pour myself into the world
like sugar into bitter coffee, walk barefoot on dirt and call it water,
learn Latin phrases to disrobe hairy women.
I would take credit for the Jesus-curses ringing out
at godless ballparks, the Jesus-praises that nonbelievers
utter before their deaths, the Jesus-moans that drip
from women’s bruised lips before they deliver themselves
to the unconsciousness of ecstasy. If I were you
Josh Cembellin, drunk off wine, bloated from bread,
I would consume myself, never licking the fingers of regrets.
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