I sit in bed, from the linen your scent still rises.
You're asleep inside your old guitar.

A mariachi suit draped on a chair, its copper buttons,
the eyes of jaguars stalking the night.

I sit in bed, from the linen your scent still rises.

Through a window a full moon brings to mind Borges,
there is such loneliness in that gold.

You're asleep inside your old guitar.

Are your calloused heels scraping its curved wood or
are there mice scurrying in the walls?

I sit in bed, from the linen your scent still rises.

I flick on a lamp, yellow light strikes your guitar
like dirt thrown on a coffin.

You're asleep inside your old guitar.
I sit in bed, from the linen your scent still rises.











From Poetry Northwest Fall 2006/Winter 2007 Copyright University of Washington. Used with permission.