American Primitive
Her smudged face in the bathroom mirror,
seen from bruised sheets.
The open mouths of high heels
one face down drunken, the other gaping.
Headlights strafe the curtains,
a scant dress clings to the oily back of a chair.
The room has washed up
on the grey surf of dawn.
She walks back into the room.
Her slip white as bone,
sallow skin dimpled by day-peep.
In the dark, she told you her story
as you drowsed beneath a shadow mind.
You did not want to know her
and now she won’t look at you
as she leaves.
When she’s gone,
you lay for a long time
in your cotton shrouded tomb;
it is way too big for how you feel.
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