Maité

13 February 2009
Boca Chica, Dominican Republic

She said her only vice was that she lied,—
But of her vices I know many more
Acquired in a profession that's so old.
For who am I naïve, to argue well
With a sweet witch slaving for the devil.

Enchantress, temptress & mistress demon,
Who summons forth Hell´s fires & heart's hot lust,
In mango kisses laced with cinnamon.
Though often she calls me Moloch's own son
Come to ensnare her who seduced the world.

A thought that cracks hoarse laughter from my throat,
When I compare her coco mordant with
My gentle touch & linguering caress
That maddens her & drives her to frenzy
Disarming layers of defence emplaced.

So where's the end in sight?—Just night-2-night,
As long as there's bachata and cold beer,
As long as tropic's full-moon lights senses,
As long as there's no talk of love & such,
As long as I can´t buy her silken kiss.