I remember my first kiss– the sky,
as my neighbor, an underdeveloped tree,
tried to find me.
The crucible was the Southern Californian desert; it burned us.
The oleander princesses and the date queens stared at us.
We both learned the wind’s fight song,
the sound of a truculent whistle.
I learned cursive. Graffiti, we both got it wrong
–the Caliban in the cerulean calligraphy.
We began to sour, pickle.
You wrote left-handed. I wrote to the dammed.
Disbanded, our feelings started to trickle
like the spring rain did and sometimes can.
Trauma spread like veiny quartz.
We watered the drought plenty with our eyes.
You grew up to make keyboards sound
like dark blue air raids;
sirens reminiscent of the 90’s riots.
I had written a lot– my share of edits.
We remember when we were brave.
Cemetery pets were grave, the dusky strays
chased us into the infinity of desert sunsets.
We now only love static cats, best.
We use to scratch under our casts.
And we use to craft witches’ slogans
to ward off golden scorpions
and idols: the horror of the horoscope
never did us any good
– the sun, our former nemesis
was too involved for any good.
I remember my self, dissolved
into the golden costume.
Embalmed, I was too pale,
when Araceli told me I looked dead,
and the foundations touched my blackheads.
You asked me upon graduation,
“Why did you wear a dress?”
I don’t know.