M O T E L  6,  M I N N E S O T A

I am in bed, watching a man cook on PBS.
They are going at it in the room next door. I hear them,
their moans, their bodies, their bed banging the wall.
They are close to me. I feel their bed rise and fall,
I can almost smell the tinge of penetration pushing
through the wall to my pillows.
I strain to catch her moonlike groans growing
as the chef flails his knives.
He is preparing lamb with coriander seeds–
the audience goes wild for coriander, or is it
for the radiant chef, or his handsome knives, or perhaps
for nothing more than the sign that blinks
APPLAUSE APPLAUSE APPLAUSE
He holds a fistful of coriander in the air like a gladiator, these
are one of the first spices used by mankind! and the audience cheers
harder and louder than they knew they could cheer for a seed.
Her moans have ripened into little rhythmic yelps.
I close my eyes to listen to their sounds building, swelling,
I want to know if they are young, if they are in love,
if they are wild for coriander. I want
to know if those are the same noises that come from me,
I want to press my ear against the wall
to listen, as if to peek in at my own fits of desire.
I want to know if he satisfies her
or if she is under him, cheering for the blinking sign.