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Tall Stalks, Hidden Moans

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Tall Stalks, Hidden Moans

Between the Rows, Under the Moon

You drive past the sugarcane fields at midnight. The stalks sway. The road is empty, then you see her standing at the edge of the field, wearing a thin dress, holding a machete she doesn’t need.

“Looking for something sweet?” she asks. She takes your hand and leads you between the rows. The stalks close behind you, taller than your head. The moon filters through the leaves, casting silver stripes on her bare legs.

“The watchman is asleep,” she whispers. “He won’t wake for hours.”

She lays her dress on the soft earth, pushes you onto it, and kneels. She unzips your pants and takes you in her mouth while the sugarcane rustles overhead. A night bird calls. She moans. The bird calls again. She takes you deeper.

She climbs on top, straddles you, and lowers herself onto you. The earth smells of molasses and rain. She rides you slowly at first, then faster. The stalks sway. She comes with a gasp that the wind carries toward Mount Elgon. You follow, emptying into her as the moon hides behind a cloud.

She helps you up, brushes the dirt from your knees, and points at the road. “Same row tomorrow? I’ll bring a blanket.”

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