Vacant

As the wind rips through
my low-cut blouse, grabbing my bare nipple,
I shiver. A car door yawns wide. I lean in, striking a deal
with the suit inside.
He follows me up the dirty back stairs.
Grabs my ass. Hard. Fierce. We work. I am numb.
Succumbing to him.
Hot and bitter, his juices trickle down
my chin. I lick them away. He strokes my
head. Calls me baby.
Why do they do that? Alert now, have to
be. Never another bruise, Jimmy said. Can't
work with damaged fruit.
I am a plumb, fallen far from the tree.
The suit pulls on his pants. He pretends too.
That his wife won't care.
He won't get caught. He is a descent man.
His eyes, like mine, are vacant as he puts
dough on the table.



Bargain

South of the border,
merchants hock oro and silver near the
playa. Pale gringas
haggle over mere pesos as natives
sell their blood and sweat. At the hotel, fresh
towels greet all guests.
The young man behind the stand, skin like a
Hershey bar, earns four
bucks a day, while tourists spend four-hundred.
In town, bare footed
ninos pull an old burro over the
cobblestoned street. Drained
of the heat like dried fruit, one boy pauses
to admire a
pretty American. Bathed in silk and
jewels, she tenses.
near him. Timid as a mouse, he offers
her chicle. She smiles,
sticks a peso in his hand, then leaves them
behind her. Happy
for now, her designer sunglasses shade
her eyes, but she can
still drink in the painted sky, the salty
sea. She looks back. The
view has changed. The boy is watching her. Hope
printed in his eyes.



About the author:
Barbra Anninois currently working on her second novel. Visit her at www.barbraannino.com.

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