Fallout (Crank 3)

it’s worth it. Being with you like this?

Fire’s low. Come on. He has already

rolled out the sleeping bags in the back

of the truck. We climb in, and under

a meadow of stars, my cowboy ravages me.

BIRDSONG WAKES ME

Loud birdsong. A regular death metal

concert of birdsong, in fact. I keep

my eyes closed, snuggle into my bed.

Hard bed. A waterfall of light. Outside.

Sleeping bag. Cold metal beneath me.

And I am alone. I jump into a sitting

position, quieting the avian cacophony.

A flutter of wings. “Kyle? Where are you?”

An acrid drift of tobacco assaults

my nose just as I hear, Over here.

He squats to one side of the fire pit,

trying to resurrect the dead embers.

Smoking. God. Cigarettes are, like,

seven bucks a pack. He needs to

kick that habit, and quickly. I slide

from the warmth of the sleeping bag,

into frosty December morning.

Go over to give him a kiss, steeling

myself against the stench of smoke.

But another, more insidious smell

leaks from his pores, despite

the cold. “Did you do crystal?”

His eyes, onyx-pupiled and crimson-

rimmed, are all the answer I need.