Josh Moore North Dakota II

TV news broadcasts the motel dark, she lies flat, belly soft with rabbit tattoos, ash smudged into the sheets. My boots drip clay and pesticide, fingers stained from counting nickels. Outside, a pumpjack bows to the ground, over and over, like it’s praying. She whispers something about escape. I kiss the scar beneath her jaw, taste motel soap and Marlboro light. The window rattles an oil train snakes past in the distance, headlights stitching the prairie shut. Somewhere under the bed, a cockroach drags a matchstick. We don’t speak again. Just listen to the fridge counting seconds between the thunder.