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it’s worth it. Being with you like this?
Fire’s low. Come on. He has already
rolled out the sleeping bags in the back
of the truck. We climb in, and under
a meadow of stars, my cowboy ravages me.
BIRDSONG WAKES ME
Loud birdsong. A regular death metal
concert of birdsong, in fact. I keep
my eyes closed, snuggle into my bed.
Hard bed. A waterfall of light. Outside.
Sleeping bag. Cold metal beneath me.
And I am alone. I jump into a sitting
position, quieting the avian cacophony.
A flutter of wings. “Kyle? Where are you?”
An acrid drift of tobacco assaults
my nose just as I hear, Over here.
He squats to one side of the fire pit,
trying to resurrect the dead embers.
Smoking. God. Cigarettes are, like,
seven bucks a pack. He needs to
kick that habit, and quickly. I slide
from the warmth of the sleeping bag,
into frosty December morning.
Go over to give him a kiss, steeling
myself against the stench of smoke.
But another, more insidious smell
leaks from his pores, despite
the cold. “Did you do crystal?”
His eyes, onyx-pupiled and crimson-
rimmed, are all the answer I need.
