Closest to her Heart

On the arms of the Williamsburg bridge, tumbling brunette
curls, Lisa’s hands sneak to her center, to unclose
her tarnished heart-shaped locket, which
forever drapes a
rosy fragrant neck—her cold, velvet skin where pecks
from my lips freshly smudge like fingerprints grease up
a photograph. Excitement locks my knees, finally granted
the gift of her secret within. But what I see dumb-founds
me: hog-neck man, shaven, posing, smiling
in suit and tie, cheesing—instantly the
lenses in my eyes rip, burst
straight
through my pupils, stick like
flypaper to
the grimy face I’m shown—a snapshot she must
have dug from the cellar,
cropped,
shaped into a heart—a heart!--and snapped tight inside a
necklace worn so right the last
eighty million years…same guy who trapped her
in a closet…same guy
who cut her first blood on strawberry
short cake bedsheets…same guy…same
hog-neck, whose trail of saliva I
would murder to erase with my
own sincere foreplay…yes…the very
same dick. My hands fly from
my side and go
screaming up my cheekbones! My spine
stiffens! But all so sweetly and particularly, her
petite fingers pull the small whispering
chain over curly hair, unclothing the
antique. Tracing an S-shape curving around my eye-
socket, passing my nose and finally sloping back to press
its tip to the center of my lips, her soothing digit
hushes. She scoops the
bloody culprit out and releases him off the edge.
I turn and watch him sommersault down towards the
Wakarusa River—only time I ever saw
her father clean-cut.