It’s dark inside your Buick,
and like someone playing father, you
wolf-whistle at the hilt of your highest speed
with full cigar lungs. I think of what it means
to be docile: wilted myrtle, deafened gypsy.
I am pinned down like a moth
and you came to tame and coo me.
Out the window, the sea looks
so naughty, its ebb and flow sensual,
struggling like hell to latch to the side
of the fermented earth.
I think I am a mermaid now, draught
hidden deep in this forest of silk.
When you gag me, it is a sendoff,
quiet as a charmed mountain, its skin plush