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.