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7/13/2021

The Heater

We were the last two
standing

on the soaked floor.
Together, after the packed

rock show,
we sang Indigo

Girls in his beat up,
blue van.
Modestly,

ears were ringing.
We said so.
The weather

turned cold,
and everything white
fell from an aching sky.

Late, vacant highway.
No, no noise.

We checked in. Two
double hotel beds.

Like brother and sister,
we rested separately

until I sat up
on the bed
by the heater

with my head
propped on my hands.
Soon, blood rushing,

hands and feet
came alive again.
I breathed deeply,

pretending sleep.
He sat up, creeping

over to the heater,
twice feeling the air.

Finally, his slight weight
fell down next to me.

It was five a.m.

Back home, girls
whispered.

Back home, girls
asked me for a souvenir.

They asked me,
What’s he like.

They whispered
and asked me,
What’s he like.

He spoon-slept
by my side,
holding up

his hand, pressing it
against my palm.
We measured,

and I couldn’t believe
that his fingers

were just as small
as mine.

C.A. MacConnell