Dusk at the Codependence Inn, by Jessica Abughattas

I feel a sense of betrayal, for it should be you inside my
knowing, and they left outside, tied on the porch.
Early evening, flecked raspberry. Light muddled
mountain. Your speech mushrooms like a wick.
I wait inside the minutes until it finishes. What light
remains clicks deeper in swatches as I pass through
the rooms carrying clothes to my trunk. When night
resumes, swath of violet and a distance I cannot name
or touch, we sit in chairs in the backyard and bargain. No
you would not. Yes I meant it. No there wasn’t. Yes
it could have. We have enough time for long silences,
to adjust the log decimated in the fire pit, to consume
a dark chocolate bar. For two minutes in the car
my mind features nothingness. Under the gas station’s
fluorescence, I hold my breath and fill the tank.

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