haibun
crane

| Current Issue | Contents Page - This Issue | Editorial Staff | About This Journal | Submissions |
| Acceptance Criteria | Haibun Definitions | Articles | Archives | Search | Red Moon Press |

January 2014, vol 9, no 4

| Contents | Next |


Deborah Guzzi

Echoes of the Past


“I’ve got a surprise for you honey,” he says as the car comes to a stop at the end of a very dark road, buildings loom before us. He blindfolds me with his hanky. Coming to the passenger side, he gathers me up, and we walk hand and hand through the humid August heat. Something touches my ankle and I squeal. He brushes the hair from my forehead, gentling me like a shy colt. The knotted silk scarf I wear as a halter clings to me. The cutoffs jeans ride up exciting me, as he lifts me onto a narrow wall. Shushing me, he says. “Sit still, honey.” I have no idea what this place is. But, his voice and footsteps echo.

the warble
of a harmonica –
salt on my lip

Vibrations tingle, raising the down on my arms. A bead of sweat mixes with baby lotion and follows the shiver down, from cleavage to navel. Seconds become minutes, as the song caresses me. Oh, how I love him, this long tall drink of water with his huge hands and slow drawl. As the last note hangs in the air, I hear him walking to me. He lifts me high and traces the droplet of sweat down to the top of my hip-huggers with his tongue. He places me, still blindfolded, on the ground. I feel his breath upon my mouth. The tip of his tongue plays across my teeth. Ah, I remember him, that night at the empty skating-rink: his face, his hands, his taste but, sadly, not his name.

the scarf
falls from my hands –
the drawer closes




crane