Lights Out

Through a puff of smoke and the discordant

notes of an amateur piano man, I watch her

sitting alone in a back corner booth,

a candle paints her face, eggshell

eyes like two dead light bulbs.

 

A shot of vodka, and I move to her table,

staring without words into porcelain eyes.

“You’re nervous,” she says, pulling a red pencil

from her purse, the pointed tip

hugs the outline of her lips.

 

“It’s just; I’ve never talked to a blind person before…”

stirring my Scotch, rocks ring against the glass

like wind chimes in a storm.

 

She leans forward slowly running a finger

through her obsidian hair,

“Oh, that’s O.K; I’ve never seen one either –

what do they look like?”

 

Biting my lip, I look away,

“Well, most wear sunglasses…”

 

“Only assholes wear sunglasses at night;”

she pulls the maraschino cherry from her Manhattan,

placing it between her teeth.

 

“Look, I’m not really that–“

 

“Shh,” her fingers press my lips, tiptoe

to my earlobe, leaning in she whispers,

“I like to fuck with the lights on.”

I take another shot; we leave for her place.

 

Arms entwined we enter, she leads me through

darkness to her room, flicks the lights on.

Slipping her dress straps from her shoulders,

it puddles around her ankles.

 

She lies her naked body on the bed,

gazing at me with a sculpture’s stare–

I turn the lights off.