In Pineng

I knew the man in pineng. Briefly our fingers touch, bodies arching, sweat dripping, a shudder, sigh, an unknown. 

Promises promises. 

Call me if it’s a boy. Call me and say “ay.” I will find you. He’s angry, he’s blissful, he’s sorry. 

A stoic, handsome, masked, mechanical face. 

In this apocalypse. 

I have loved you so briefly. Passionately. Roughly. So dutifully. For one night. 

He left. By the iron gate. 

An ungrown promise grows in me fluttering fluttering inside. 

I must hurry, my infant daughter calls for me. At the country home. 

But, 

From the man in pineng. My black market soldier. 

A boy. 

Fluttering inside me.