creosote | memories of my ghost sista

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Ask me. I will. Where I used to dwell I’d smell

the ghost of the red desert stirring, sensed

it wake at dawn. Creosote, sage, the swell

of black palm fronds flinging themselves against

a sky neon green, warm as bath water.

I will. I had the loneliness that sang,

too. It gave me songs but not one lover.

Songs of dust and rust, that horrible pang

of loss that left me sick. I still smell it.

In my sweat and sperm, my gristle. I’ll share

it, if you ask. Songs of blank bricks, Vegas

heat and heartache. I’ll sing of dawns unfit

for these dull days; when even rage is prayer

and we burn together, full of malice.

Tags

After your mom goes to bed you slip out
of the trailer so that we can nuzzle

and pet in the red dirt. Lower-lip pout —
O-lip moan. Kisses and pheromones. Dull

ache of cock pressed against the camel toe
in your cotton. Creosote and sage. Kiss

with my tongue in your mouth. Rust moon’s glow.
“Middle school,” you hiss, “was never like this.”

All that stands between us is a condom
and the cloth of your Pinkie Pie knickers;

a left-over from your ghastly, “lost year.”
Not like this. Not now. Pain gives us freedom.

Not like that. This. Kiss me more. The sky blurs
as we bleed, crossing through this queer frontier.

memories of my ghost sista