MICHAEL LISIESKI

NIGHT OWLS

It smelled like cigarettes
in the middle of nothing.
My love is asleep with her love
and the highway
almost put to bed.

We were drinking mezcal in Detroit.
We were drinking something like stars:
the points of light jumping from their faces,
how she left trails between him and me,
each waiting for her head to settle.

The final touch: that thistle plant
mutant, the many stems fused and ribbon-like.
The other joinings: notes slipped between us,
gone to seed.  His hand on my neck,
the new smell of his breath

and the ways we learned
to pass the aeons
she spent in the bathroom,
getting herself ready
for who knows what.