Aubade in Which I Awaken
Erica Bodwell
Like a Glock
& a dare, a blizzard-stranded
Honda, a constellation
of bite-marks
across a collarbone,
being lost
in the worst neighborhood
in Syracuse,
like thirty-six stitches
in a gaping palm,
playing quarters
with Stolis
in the Moscow dawn, eyelids
stuck-shut
with slept-in mascara,
like leaping
from a rusted
train trestle, praying
to Venus
& not the virgin, dragging
a metal detector
over morning’s fresh sand
& pocketing every
unearthed thing—
what did I think I’d find out there,
blindfolded, accepting
all suitors,
in my long waltz
with the night?
