In the Hotel Devotion
there is no running water,
no power, no stairs,
no bed. There is only
the woman who holds
a river in her mouth,
fireflies in her hands,
the woman who bends
for you, opens for you.
There is only this book,
this pen in your hand,
your name the only name.
Outside, pigeons bellying
down the alleys of night.
Inside, this sadness
blooming in your throat.
Sometimes a handful of
light is mistaken for love. I
did not know it was a river
until I tried to swallow.