Hotel Room
by Holli Carrell
In this room of rectangles,
I am an obscene accumulation;
a traffic of veins
from I don’t know where,
a weed
of pubic hair.
In this pink
camisole, beside the overcoat
spread over the chair,
I hold my timetable
and watch my body,
an animal,
behind glass. Her pace
is my pace, the dark
eyes devouring,
the stale yeasty smell.
The radiator awakes
and sputters
out his insults.
He tells me to put my clothes back on,
every article
but the patent shoes,
two spit black seeds
on the rug.
My body is unlocked
as any door. It isn’t erotic;
it isn’t sad.
Fake flowers stand tall
in your glass.
I smooth the dimple
beneath me on the bed.
