She ambled up to me after the witching hour on a balmy summer night.
A day had passed since fireworks of freedom lit up the skies of our capital.
We talked on the bench at the crossroads of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X.
She had a room for rent. I needed a place to sleep.
We walked to her apartment, to view her vacancy.
We sat on her couch, talking.
Her hand drifted down, searching….
She whispered in my ear.
Dark Flower, at that moment I knew: your warm mouth is more dangerous than the South Carolina water moccasin; your moist lips, your wet tongue secrete honeyed poison.
Dark Flower: your sweet nectar reeks of decay, yet it is so very sweet….
