Clare Martin

Each bone is a highway. Each organ’s a town on the map of the body.

What is the nameless city you have taken me to? In it, we reside in a junked motel. There is dust from the road in my mouth when you bend to kiss me for the first time, again.

I have played a pair of deuces, all in. I have set the path behind me on fire.
I’ve lived one black dream after another for this one desire. Once, twice to love – who knew?

Is it a miracle, or a dilemma of death?
You bite my tongue softly; blood-tang sweet. Take me into a blissful prison. You fall asleep with the .45 under the pillow.

The bathroom door hangs off hinges. Ice melts in a cracked bucket. Neon light blisters threadbare curtains.

All night it is like the sun is watching. I decide to believe God doesn’t exist but such belief is ineffectual. How else would I have breathed so long outside of your arms?