My Little Indian Poem by Kyle Shield Laster

His russet colored skin is black.
The room is still, but reddened by the clock
On the stand; he stands.
He sways to one o'clock in the morning.
There is no dance like his - not this early.
His dances are enough.

The bed is inviting, but I am not.
I'm relieved he is here, but I am not.
I turn away from his breath as he moves
Toward me. Liquor fogs him.

He makes for the bed and I black out
As my mind braces itself for another dawn of this.

I roll away.

He kisses the sheets.
He disappoints himself.
His songs are groans.
My little indian moans.