Poetry Journal

Issues / Volume 5 Issue 2 , November 2015


Hotel Room Nightmare

Jelena Dinic

  We fly high to find the lost.
  Outside, the last bits of clouds. 
  Illusions of faces and places.
  No breathing spaces left. 
  I wear a dress out of the suitcase.
  He buys us time at the Grand Millennium. 
  Behind the brass hotel door
  with others in identical rooms 
  we unpack two hearts
  we forgot we had 
  and let them bleed their weight 
  down the sliced floors.
  I watch him gasping for air. 
  He watches me too.