Cigarettes on the floor,
V-8 and white tequila
in the unplugged fridge,
dried grits and scorpions in the sink—
the swamp-cooler apartment smelled of Rasta and burnt noodles.

We hutched under the table drinking Boones, I said
“I will call my my first son Alexander.”
But the girl drinking vodka had him a week later,
caesarean-section, and took my name—
my boyfriend’s baby, not mine.

I threw plastic wine-glasses off the balcony,
smoked my self to sleep
fetal beneath the futon—
dreamt you said I made the whole thing up.