All These Rooms

MISSOULA

In the dark of the shower she combs out the knots in her hair and sticks the loose strands to the wet tile.
The apartment is filled up with the sound of the water.
The window in the bathroom is open and her body steams as the wind comes in off the snow.
The tips of her hair freeze. Her scalp tightens.
The kitchen smells of cold air through hot water
and the fried plantains in the salad you’re making.
This place has come to taste of you. You go to the shower, slip your hand under the skin on her hip, trace your finger up her stomach to her armpit, pull it free like you would undress a deer tied to a rafter by a chain in the garage.
You stand there and look out at Missoula, naked, watching
over the orange sky, the odd buildings tacked to the valley.
Talk of wiping them off and staking teepees
into the shadows along the hills.