We stayed in bed past three, fat crows
like roosters cawing for our attention.

My skin was brown and you kissed me
on that pale equator, head at my hips,
light across ceiling, the rumble of the
housekeeper’s cart—a tentative knock,
a train moving on.

We slept and slept, sheets twisted
and damp, while children ran zigzags
down the hall and the buzz
of a lawn mower beat against
the window like a hungry mosquito.

Did we know it would be over
as soon as we pulled aside
the thick lined curtains?
Did we clutch tighter, snake arms
and legs and breath?

Later, I watched you argue over the bill
and wondered what I ever saw in you.

Kathleen Latham’s work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in Constellations, Eclectica Magazine, and the Tipton Poetry Journal. She grew up in Los Angeles but now lives outside of Boston, Massachusetts, with her husband, four children who come home when they can, and a spoiled rotten cat. She can be found online at

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