It takes three tequila shots to completely
fuck me up, and Jane is still eyeing
her empty shot glass. Her cheeks
reflect the dim light over the bar, magnify it.

“You a billiards man?” she says, reeking cactus
and tilting on her stool. She cracks
the first set, sends three solids into three pockets.

One sharp jerk as the music shifts
and two more balls rattle down their shoots.
Jane slides in and out of the beat, hips revolving
to shoulders to fingers straight on the cue.

When it’s my turn, she leans
against the wall, a cigarette
between her lips and I

can’t see the table. I miss.
White spin rebounds
off the far wall into a side pocket.

Jane bends and comes up rolling it
in her palm. Her lips brush my ear.
“ Take me home and fuck me.”

At her throat, a tiny moonstone
glints, blood prick trapped inside
like an unbeating heart.


I wake alone in her bed. Jane parts
the curtains. Like a million million stars
on her skin, water sparkles
in the predawn light. I’d swear
it’s she and not the sun
that blinds me.


Down at the corner café, Jane pushes potatoes
around her plate, piling them up as if
to resurrect the wall between us.

She’s lovely as ever, buttons straining
across her chest, her voice scarred with cigarettes.
So easy, to imagine sex is the answer.
So hard, to know the question.

# # #

Trespass by Sari Krosinsky
originally published in the Winter 2010 print edition



Sari Krosinsky’s poems have recently appeared in Adobe Walls, Collective Fallout, Contemporary American Voices, Long Island Quarterly, Main Street Rag and others. She edits Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fiction. She received a B.A. in religious studies and M.A. in creative writing from the University of New Mexico. She lives in Albuquerque, N.M., with her partner and cat.

For more of Sari's work,
visit her Big Pulp author page


This feature and more great
fiction & poetry are available in
Big Pulp Winter 2010:
Ted Bundy's Beetle

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