CYNTHIA HUNTINGTON
All night the roar of trucks
beneath your window, their hum and grind
like a river’s current, carries you down,
dragged over rocks and sand,
turning headlong, spun into its rush.
You lie on the white bed,
on cool sheets, turning;
the traffic surges below,
and all night you are traveling,
borne down in its rush.
Your penis curls limp against you,
a drop of blood on the tip.
Stain of semen, scent of cunt
on your fingers, strange liquor
in your hair, that alien touch.
If you could sleep, if you could sink
down here, rest and begin dreaming,
this time you could make it real.
Lights sweep the ceiling and are gone.
Like the pressure of an unfamiliar kiss—
the river that has carried you
out of your life, away from your home,
lost, no country here your own.