Dave Hughes: Supplication, or Nelson knew how to hurt

The fan creaks in its slow arc

while the mosquito net billows out.

The room pressurized by an errant breeze

which brings no relief

only impossibly still heavy heat.

even my sweat moves slowly,

rolling, gaining volume, but no speed.

The room is golden with the reflection of the sun on the sand.

My post rum depression is sitting on my chest

making breathing an offering on the altar of Sol,

inhalation as supplication.

rolling out of my damp sheets

I lick the sea salt off my lips,

and hang my head under the tap

smelling, tasting the iron well water.

I search the eyes in the mirror

taking note of the webs of lines

spraying off their corners.

Silently I offer the question again.

So many times,

so many women,

so many mirrors.

a question

that I have asked the eyes in the mirror  in so many apartments, houses,tents,lodges,boats,deserts,beaches,forests,mountains,burned out buildings,job sites,park benches…

Are you happy?

In the other room,the blender bursts into life

she calls above the racket,

“you wanna floater in this, babe ? “

it starts as a crinkle

and finally,

after all this time,

the eyes in the mirror smile too.

“Maybe ! “

I yell over my shoulder,

answering two questions in one.