those few days in mexico,
i had tar pits for eyes — sunken, sooty —
and your parched lips were miller moths
circling the darkness.
our bedroom smelled of fingerpaintings,
tangy with fresh veneer and faintly
of stale, stalled sex.
i woke with daylight and left you naked,
sleeping, without goodbyes.
to wander out in sequined slippers,
and watch mestizos boys assert themselves
through sneaker brands,
brash yells rising in pitch and ending
with fistfights.
little girls in embroidered cotton dresses
bumped fists against their mouths and sidled up to me,
fit their thumbs through the button holes
of my jacket.
in the middle of a crowded bar,
you held my face like a rabid dog’s,
kissed me hard as i kept my eyes open
and smelled your sweat,
felt your pulse against my tonsils.
we were so stupid with the beauty
of mountains hitched out from the land,
and toothless women wearing trenches
under their eyes, and salsa like pulp spooned
from a heart.
that whole week,
coyote yelps jolted me out of sleep, and i
sat, shaped like a comma, against the windowpane
listening to your breath, and wondering who
would win if it came to it — the coyotes, probably.
i already had their teeth inside me.

Alexandra Grigorescu