Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

1968 — Patchouli

by Howie Faerstein

I wouldn’t sleep with her.

Because he was fucking
someone else
he wanted me
to sleep with her
a ceremony
to get them even
but I couldn’t sleep with her
though she was willing
and I had always thought her hot.
Of course I remember little
of that night except
for pushing open the door
into a cloud of patchouli
then picking her up
and carrying her into their apartment.
I wish I could remember more
what I said
what he said
especially what she did then.
Folsom Prison Blues was playing
other albums strewn about the room
pornography decorating the bedside table.
I could’ve said no to begin with
then none of this
would have happened.