The Drowned Mouse

It's hot. So hot he sweats
in a circle where my hand
touches the hairy pool of his stomach.
We are beached on top
of the covers, pillows
spilled and ripped
all over the old carpet
we hauled in from the curb.
The fan's on,

but I feel nothing.
Nothing seems
to move. Why don't you love
me anymore? he says.

I wonder where all
the flies came from;
it's so hot and suddenly,
there's all these flies.
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Went on a lovely retreat with Dorianne Laux. She read my book and liked it, too.