Omens
The dead dog on the highway driving back from the mountain was an omen—

the subwoofer rattling the windows in Elbe was foreshadowing,
like driving with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped
around my wrist.

Your sunken expression was hungry
and my hairline was unguarded against the stubble of your chin, or kissing
the tips of my fingers when I was half asleep tangled around
you like calligraphy on a love note.

Your unclipped fingernails on my leg was forbearance,
a lineage of ghost lovers laughing on a continuous loop.

The cowboy boots stomping alongside my high heels,
my bloody foot in the sink,
soaking in tepid water,
wet footprints on a hotel floor,
and the hilarity of a dead cricket.

The phone bill and refusal to accept a free cup of coffee;
the silent breakfast afterward,
your ejaculation on my breasts, that soft
cry of fuck yeah when you came and
cleaning myself off in a dark bathroom.

I tried to write a poem that began with: my ear
can taste your heartbeat
but I couldn't bear to
continue, to complete, to go on, to remember
to forget the continuum of the past, like a
rope curved around my neck, or just
the two of us kissing before a firework show
downtown before the morning of
unaccomplished awkward silences.