Montana is so far now.
I don’t know if I can get back.
Why? You ask.
I don’t know. I say.
But I do.
Late nights sucking
On those skinny menthol cigarettes.
The ones that make me feel so elegant.
Like a proper lady helps me think.
I still hear the snap
From under my blouse,
In the back seat of
His sensible car.
I won’t ask your forgiveness.
It’s moot.
But you should know—I am not a whore.
I scream and cry and hate.
You prod, demand, dismiss.
Your lips move up and down,
And Sideways.
I see us back in the café off campus,
Discount Spanish textbooks sprawled open
Across nineteenth century mahogany tables.
We held court like Alice and her Rabbit,
Sipping French roast from oversized cups and saucers
Imported from the heart of Belgium.
I can’t keep up on your hurried path,
And we miss the sunset in Monterrey.
Sun’s crest mocks me in the rearview mirror,
Told you so. And I wonder if the slice of sun could blind me.
Like spoiled eggs I crack your CDs,
Against the side of the porcelain tub.
A burst of angry stars.
Harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash
Begged me to Love the one you’re with,
But I was so fucking tired.
Did you know I have a murmur?
It comes and goes.
Flutters sudden and brief,
Like the caged Monarch.
Maybe it will go wild and break
Out of my chest,
No more trips to the ER or the shrink,
Not a pill or two or three.
The big sky finally fell.
Collapsed to the earth,
That afternoon under the canopy of palms.
Remnants of hubris rained down hard,
Kissed our face with pity and a flock
Of Starlings swept the big sky.
Our eyes follow the breaks in sequence,
turns of path, dips, and dives.
A dance of ease so strange and odd in our
big sky.
Photo by Shi McLean on Unsplash
