Vol 3 No 1 2009

Waking in a Cheap Hotel

Detroit, 1958

She stretches,

pulls at the peeling paper

just above her head. She lifts her thumb,

closes one eye. It’s certain

these faded peonies on the far wall hide inside themselves

only to bloom at night.

This man in the bed next to her—what is his name? Mitchell?

Michael? Miles?

The sun pushes through a hole in the curtain,

curses them all

with too much yellow light. She turns over,

watches the man’s chest

rise under the cotton sheet.

Last evening at the club, his music

split her in two. She liked how

he moved on the stage—a big cat in a cage.

Later, his teeth would sink into her

and she would feel whole.

In the distance, she hears the 12 o’clock siren wail:

get up, go home.

Suddenly, she is sixteen years old.

It is the winter she met Harry Jones. Those days

opened her...saxophones, reefer, torch songs, promises.

She still believes in love.

She remembers her mother standing over the stove,

singing Amazing Grace into a pot of boiling soup,

her cheeks going shiny from the rising steam.

Don’t be late...

Mama always pointed at her with a wood spoon,

then pointed to the kitchen door,

slapping the air with each word:

a-man-won’t-buy-the-cow-if-the-milk-is-free.

Now sipping gin from a dirty glass—she gets up, looks into the street.

Now across the bathroom sink,

she stares into the mirror,

nods, tries to smile

at the tangled hair, drooping lids, double chin.

Her hand cups her breast.

It’s round and firm.

Still young.

Lois Roma-Deeley