Ana Poem by Taylor Rosewood

The brown lady of the south is knocking at my door,
carrying bags of oranges she grows inside her yard.
It looks like a friendly gesture, but I know of her wily chops.
She's come by way of the canyons, and the friction makes her hot.

I dated he once before, but we never left her car.
It was a 67' Mustang, and she parked in my neighbor's yard.
The yard was full of brush, and the brush was ten feet high-
high enough to conceal the truth from my virtuous neighbor's eyes.

All night long she lied, and ran her fingers through my hair,
and led me to drink and smoke, until I was torched and didn't care,
and when I left her on fire, so it was with the canyon nearby, and
I could hear the sirens whining, and I could hear my neighbors cry.

That was twenty years ago, but it seems like yesterday,
and now I'm old and bald, but Ana hasn't changed.
She's a sexy pueblo Indian, with hair down to her waist,
scented like desert sage, and her mouth has a citrus taste.

The full moon makes her glow, and tonight she's golden brown,
with her toenails painted red beneath a full length, see-through gown.
I say 'It's been twenty years.' but she's not one to remember.
She's come to deliver oranges, and her oranges glow like embers.