…round, and round,
and round again… summer
drips from the cracks
and hinges of our rented
doors and windows,
like runny ice cream between
chubby, greedy fingers.

… round,
and round… the air inside
our apartment swells
with pregnant heat,
even the fan labors
as it turns…
…round, and round,
and round again.

…up and down, over
and under… the air curls
itself around
the burgundy futon
where I nuzzle
my sweaty head
against your tired shoulder.

…round, and round,
and round again…

…above our black and white
television and its home-
made rabbit ears, a queen
spider hung herself.
Our crippled kitchen table
slouches a little lower
to mourn her death…

Outside, your Detroit-born,
100-percent steel carcass
remains comatose
under the San Joaquin Valley sun.

…round, and round,
and round again…
even the vultures are too hot
to hover today
…round, and round…
five years have
digested one another
and the old, rusty Camaro
has slowly shed
all its extra nuts and bolts.
It now refuses to travel any further
than the local supermarket,
and on a good day back…
and round again.

~ by Samantha Lê

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First published in Corridors

Copyright © 2001 by ​Samantha Lê
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