Mas in y’Mas

From my short story Santimanitay, 1990

LAST LAP

The heat

The heat of the sun

Of the people,

Boiling in their blood,

Red hot and bubbling, over-

flowing with sensuality

wafting on the wind

Like the smell of stale oil from the vendors’ stall.

And the people gyrate and reverberate,

Stoking the heat.

And she, Cynthy, twisting and thrusting her hips,

Like Sparrow say, ‘ball-bearings in she waist’.

And he, Glen, pelvis erect,

getting tighter and tighter

from the heat she giving off,

was a part of the rhythm,

part of the heat.

The heat.

And when it get too much,

Cynthy spin round

to kiss…

But was her sister she see,

Standing,

Still as death,

Watching.

‘Cee!’

Cynthy scream.

But he

Ridiculous, slow man,

Kiss her deep and sweet

Till she pull way and scream again.

‘Cee!’

But the face was lost

among the so many faces,

grinning and spinning and perspiring

from the heat.

The heat.

And he, Glen, twist round to see,

but was too late.

Cee was gone,

And the fete was done for Cynthy,

Sweat rolling down her face

Heart thumping, music throbbing.

A reckoning to pay.

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