Scorched
MJ Moore
On a scorched Miami night,
a girl’s hot bare feet creep up pale cool walls,
tracing the old smudged path.
A pearl of sweat blossoms and spills on the bed.
Sweet, pungent cigar smoke snakes under the door.
An opera tenor blares from the warped hi-fi,
a heart-breaking miserere—
“Lord, have mercy on my soul.”
One a.m.
Outside, moths batter themselves
against the fizzing porch light,
circling their moon.
On nights like this
the mind stumbles through the garden maze,
seeking the torched center, longing
for the way out.
