I’m petulating, having him draw the curtains, pack away the limes

in a freezer. I could stack the towels I brought from America by a

door, one on top of one like the folds in a neck, mother’s stroking

and sunned neck. When did you learn your shame? I am thinking 

of my man, and how he calls me baby, a bite without teeth. 

Of my tossing water in corners, unbottled and free. At last. 

Here, drink something, so desperate and filling. I want to crawl back 

to him, but not the way I came. A burn clouds the window, lighting 

the pelvis of the white chair, the slices of ham I forgot. Goodnight, 

good room. Blow your lungs out before you hold me.