San Antonio Review

I said another word for love is gamble,

from the top floor in the Gary Cooper room.

Cooper, who Life Magazine said, almost

blighted his career because he refused

to kiss on screen. In the casino bar, a woman

sat playing keno with a pit bull guarding

her back. That kind of town. The pit’s tail

stub bobbed to a song we both forgot

but somehow knew from high school. Beside

us, two women spoke about their kids

and boys they liked, fireworks and ER bills,

until one turned to the other saying, I don’t

know how I even got here. I don’t know

why some nights I need to be in small towns

I’m not from. We sipped our tiny-free beers

while we lost at video poker. When I said

another word for love is gamble, I didn’t mean

it came with second hand smoke and free

drinks—mostly my metaphors fail. When

the women drifted back to those boys,

you said, I could about listen to them talk

all day. Then our money came back to us,

so we went up to our Cooper room. At this age,

we know breaking even is winning. You threw

open the curtains to let in the neon red light

that pulsed through the windows as we fucked.

You made me remember desire’s red heartbeat,

and why sometimes I need to talk to a stranger

all night knowing I’ll never see them again.

I can tell them anything. After we finished,

you shook into seizure, so like you taught me,

I stroked your hair and sang, You and me, only

you and me. Lyrics from a sad Nevada song

that I only remembered because I needed them.