He enters into her morning
coffee, becomes the aroma
of Bolivian mountains, redolent
of chill air and treacherous roads. She fills
her nostrils with pungent steam,
her night sweat swirling through him
in fine particles. She’ll drink herself
with him, he’s absorbed into her,
acidic as he rises through her glands.
She showers. He streams down her
in droplets, catching on hair made heavy
with soapy water, then gone but for
the film of him still on the shirt she’ll wear
again that night. She will never be free of him.
This article appears in August 2010.
