I wake in my sun-blazed bed
glossed with sweat, my body misted
like fresh produce—

I am not fresh.

My mouth tastes like Wayne McLaren’s ash-
tray; my stomach contracts like it’s been dehydrated;
my head fails to register—

he snores beside me.

His skin glows, warmed
by the invasive sunlight,
He reminds me of the firemen
pin-up the ladies have at work—

The sheets around him
are patterned, no longer solid and grey,
but decorated by three unique spots:
one darker grey, one salt-like white
and one deep reddish-brown.

Not ready to crawl from the bed,
I curl up and seek the warmth
of his womb-like embrace.

I wake again
in my sinful bed
wrapped in the arms
of my cousin,
spent tears
wet his chest—

we rise to face the day.

07/05/2009

Posted on 07/15/2009
Copyright © 2026 S. Pelham Flood