Kyle Shield Laster
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.
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