Monsoon Solo

Merlot makes her sad, always has.
When the wet season starts, she pours early,

drinks deep into afternoon. Gone
are doubt-free days of communion,

salvation in a single sip. The sky, now
a punched eye, swells. Steeples vanish.

At night in a stranger’s bed, his chest
a bare wall she can beat, sex an excuse

to scream. More intimate: the cigarette
shared after, the ripped condom wrap, its familiar

grin. With a fingertip he dabs
sweat beads on her back, says, “Stay.”

She turns her head, watches droplets
slide down windowpanes—her faith

fleeting as a breath-mark. He sleeps.
She showers. Daydreams of deserts, unseen

saviors, water to wine. The last bottle drained,
she leaves thirsty. Sediment

at the back of her throat.

• Monsoon Solo (on Amazon)
• Essays/Interviews: The Daily Beast: My Letter to Jerry Sandusky, Coward
• Head Butler interview with Kathryn Harrison: Life After “The Kiss”