At a Motel 6 on Interstate 40

-For Stella: I hope you come back

It’s night in New Mexico. Halfway to Carlsbad,

you’re too low on gasoline,

so you lie under stars you can’t see 

through a popcorn ceiling. 

You dream that running away

gave you iron teeth and a .22

instead of aching thighs and the desert—air comes in

like fire, under tonight’s padlocked door,

facing west. In the lobby:

the smell of old chocolate,

the sight of heavy blow flies 

like freckles on the wall. Long

fluorescent lights sing 

up high like the dead.

You sleep stiff on a too-soft

pillow in a cold, starched bed; wake 

to remember the man beside you isn’t yours—

but then, nothing is.