Motel 6, Alamogordo

 “Motel 6, Alamogordo”

The super moon is swollen tonight—
a silver heart beating above the gypsum dunes,
casting milklight on the parking lot
where moths tremble
against the neon vacancy sign.

In Room 112, the tub fills slow,
water whispering like a secret I once told the stars.
Tequila hums soft beneath my ribs,
a low electric murmur—
heat loosening the borders between body and sky.
The desert breathes through the thin motel curtains,
cool and mineral,
carrying the sound of trains, coyotes,
and some ancient song older than prayer.

I close my eyes and drift.
The tile floor hums with portals—
tiny vortexes opening beneath my skin,
memories slipping through the cracks of time.
Somewhere, I’m barefoot on white sand,
calling out to no one.
Somewhere, the moon answers back
in a voice that tastes like salt and smoke.

I am the siren of this roadside night,
singing to the Western wind—
half love, half haunting.
Every mile I’ve ever driven
echoes in the hollow of my chest.
And the moon—my silver accomplice—
watches it all unfold,
her glow a pulse,
a reminder
that solitude is a spell
and I am still under it.