Fingers Down Your Throat

     Zachary Scott

 

The heat from your

throat linked us

to the carpet of a

Tallahassee hotel

room. My fingers ached to the

third knuckle as you

regurgitated

vows to a reluctant

savior— your eyes sank beneath

the weight of war— dear Mary

Rose your crewmen wept

for their oblivion

wages but I

was too upset to

speak past fury.

The clock stepped from

tomorrow’s balcony and

defied your

wishes—

defiant and

endless as love.