bars curl around lit trees

frosted with flame light.

A dark man, shifting olive eyes

simmering on low alcohol.

His shadows sit across a wooden bench

peering through bottles like

cracked lens. The friend at our side

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

feels the lining of his pockets.

I know you want to leave—

my white skin is burning in this

latino flicker. We enter the garden,

your brown face, his brown face.

The dark man is speaking, knitting

his mother’s murder feet away,

her absent body a heavy quilt

tucked around my thighs.

My words sharpen knives and

load guns, hold candle wicks

in holy hands. You look at me

as though I’ve wrapped the table

in aluminum foil, the glow blinding

their green bottle lenses.