I wait until the breath slides
easily through his chapped lips,
until the muscles in his shoulder
twitch with unfeigned, honest sleep --
I wait until he forgets I'm here,

then, I make my escape. Peeling
back the bedsheets like rind, lifting
his arm away by inches, I touch feet
light to the floor, and I'm gone.

The grainy asphalt of the suburban
street greets me, wedges pebbles
into the ridged soles of my shoes.
I don't know where I'm going
or when I'll stop walking; I know

only that every night his arm
grows more leaden by the hour,
a snake clenched tight around my ribcage,
a boa constrictor suffocating its prey.

I know that some snakes feed once
a year, then doze for another,
their eyes somnolent and oily
like pearls submerged in water.

In his bed I have suffocated by inches,
his arm close coiled at my stomach.
But I will not leave him. I will learn
how to pinch a snake at the neck
to make it meek, make it concede.

My feet pad softly along the pavement.
Where I am no longer matters, because
for an hour, maybe longer, I can drink
the night air like water, swallow great
cool gulps into my lungs; really breathe.