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
