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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