A Hunter fan rotates back and forth lazily
in a scorched motel room.
Every so often it blows back ash in my
face, a minor annoyance for
the depressing relief from the mugging
this August morning in
Florida is committing on my person.
I light another smoke, an imported cigarette
but I don’t bother with menthol,
preferring acrid, Turkish tobacco squeezing my
throat’s interior like a noose hugs a
hanging victim. I watch you sleep
the sheets disarrayed from violent love-
making but you sleep so deeply.
Sunlight creeps by the windows like a
early-bird peeping tom, streaks sliding
across raven-hair and tattoos; my fingers are
jealous, but I want to watch
you at your most peaceful, the cool
breeze before the outbreak of war.