Cathleen Calbert

Then I sat up in bed, letting the light
of the motel sign hit my breasts.

I hoped he’d see them in neon
and be moved to write again.

He just slept, so I unpacked his things:
plastic razors, pens, and ex-wife smiling.

I wished I could get a shot of him—
cock soft as butter, celebrated face

withered in sleep—but I didn’t think
to bring my camera. Instead, I took

the books he had to sell and made
a halo around his head. I signed a few,

With Love and Gratitude, Yours Truly.
Landscaping gray trees on his chest,

I noticed his uneven breathing.
I thought this might be his death scene,

but he woke up, startling both of us,
and seized my blinking, green hands.