By Renée Masur
Talk is small. Sun in the Alberni valley. We laugh about the carpet in your
kitchen. Leather couch. You offer me a drink—I decline.
Bedroom. Spin me fast. Rough hands on my lips. Tongue on my hips. Too late
to turn around, back out the door. Your hand is already under my skirt. You hum
throaty words on my neck. I eat them up, feel nauseated, but now you’re pressing
on my belly, and your breath is the taste in my mouth—
I’m the moth throwing itself against the windowpane, searching for sunlight,
trailing sienna powder on your bed sheets while you’re rummaging between my
legs. Your closet has ten cotton shirts that are all the same and there’s dusted silver
in your hair, aftershave rubbed onto my neck—
My wings are tired and I can’t yet peel myself off your skin.
If it weren’t for that parking meter,
I might regret you a little longer.