key west

His voice is quiet in the dark

of the heavy tropic air in the motel room

and pained, but I offer nothing

because I can’t explain these tears

that leave me mute with helplessness

and rigid with self-control.

I turn my head to the lazy ceiling fan

and offer nothing, nothing;

already I have learned

how wasted are these words that spill from my lips.

He does not speak now,

just holds me;

I think we are both watching the same fragile palm tree

outside the dirty window.

The big bed creaks on the bare wooden floor,

and with each shuddery breath I grope for words.

“I’m too young,” I tell him – too young –

too young to be jaded and bitter;

too young to feel the pricking of annoyance at human touch;

too innocent to turn my mouth from another’s

in revulsion and contempt;

too much of a child still

to cause pain and know how to react –

how to stand up under these layers

of eyes and lips and skin.

He calms me,

with gentle fingers on my mouth

and the old salty breeze washing in;

the quiet creeps through the window

as the silence stretches between us.