At the hotel that was a brothel and haunted
by ladies of the night, a hand shushed
over sleeping men’s mouths. The windows open
to the alleyway where a man is chasing
a woman with the sound of his voice, my friends
smoking underneath the awning also hear it all,
I refrain from responding when the man yells
“you’re all jelly, no toast” and we can’t
decide if it’s criticism or compliment, but another
man quiets the riffraff into a taxi. My friend
shares a meme asking would you rather encounter
a bear or a strange man in the woods?
I answer—the Rorschach blooms from a lit cigar
against my thighs remind me nothing of spring.
—
Megan Merchant (she/her) is the Editor of Pirene’s Fountain and holds an M.F.A. degree from UNLV. She is a visual artist and author of four full-length poetry collections, four chapbooks, and a children’s book. Most recently, she was awarded the New American Poetry Prize.
Art by Hermann Rorschach.
