I

It was a clean room: easy to live in, not much else, save for the empty
water glasses and the ghostly scrawls, receipts that left
behind banal stories, full of fogged breath and waiting. There is little light
(closed curtains) and the stillness (talking was forbidden until his mouth,
your mouth told mine to open).

II

Hardwood, no headboard. Just sheets bunched against
and inside themselves just as full bodied organs. The imprint
of your back in a pillow. Wayward dreaming, and your elbow
just above my breast when you slept.


III

Often, you said, the animals forget that they are animals. Instead,
the pour themselves around, inside the grass, lingering in the air.
Much like legs on the bed. Ash tray on the nightstand; it was commonplace,
to smoke the static colored tobacco in bed. Rolled on bow shaped lips.

IV

I am capsules; throaty, bathroom maladies. The damp toothbrush, a
leaning dog casually waiting. A soldier at attention, or a bending tree.
Licking chins, steadied, sniffing. When shrugged shoulders say stay. A word
that gets mistaken for love.

VI

Take a shower, you said. Like an offering of fruit, petals pulled back to reveal
goddess laden undertones full of sea rhythms and misheard whims. One day, the animals will

remember. I leaned against a man's grey tiles, with shower heads bleating against my

forehead, skulking at my stomach. The baby has not come yet. In time, you said.

Stephanie Valente lives in New York. She enjoys candlelit smiles and diamond cut laughter. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from Uphook Press, Page Seventeen, dotdotdash, LIES/ISLE, Nano Fiction, among others. Find her here: http://kitschy.tumblr.com

<<