Three Poems : Renee Alberts

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Inherit

After I hit her, unprovoked, I left
the hotel and crossed the bridge
over dunes that seethed
frogs’ sex-heavy trill, into
the windstorm tunnel where I crouched,
body braced against blind force

as though the blow I'd struck sustained
across the black void and broke over me,
its impact diffused into singeing grains
that choked air opaque and ate waves’ static whole.

The hull of my ribcage drained
adrenaline’s animal song.

Before I shoved her through the door,
she stood in the threshold,
woodgrain resolved crisp musculature.
My pupils bloomed black
in the dust flecked mirror where
your features flared through mine:
slouch half-prowl, jaw a fist,

fists thick knots, your teeth
in my sockets—keening.
So if you lace my blood
like a drug, then this
was a clean high.  So clear,
I could see myself in it.

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