Mahjong

by John Rocco

This beautiful Chinese girl
with long black hair like a violent night
took me to a restaurant in Queens
that I’ve never been to because as she said,
“You couldn’t order anything here. You
don’t speak Chinese!” Everything was
in Chinese, the menus, the signs, the girl.
I was the only “American” in the place.
We had hot spicy steak with an egg
and noodles and soup.

Later, in the bar,
this tall, beautiful woman
said her ass was too big
and said something I’ll never
forget: “What’s this called?”
she asked leaning forward
lifting it off the bar stool.
“Ass,” I said immediately,
the word a holy relic.
“My ass,” she said
“Could play Mahjong
for four people.
All their tiles.”

I can’t stop thinking of the tiles
colored in symbols with powerful meanings
from a civilization older than them all
stuck to the glowing skin of her tight ass
licked off with my tongue
falling into my mouth.