The Morning After

A dim click

in my brain rises

like the metallic,


salty bile jerking

from my chest

to the back


of my throat.

I am gyroscoping

toward the porcelain


comfort of toilet,

wretching past

the crack of ribs


until I am empty

as the first grimy

blooms of regret.


From somewhere

in the black, I know

the lump entombed


beneath pallid hotel

sheets is not you,

but before terror


rushes in, I place

my palms firmly

across naked breasts


and study his

silhouette of chin,

jutting nameless


as the snow-draped

Confederate grave

I decorated one


January morning,

splintered in light,

unseasonably warm.


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