Homecoming body: A grey cardigan strips down, bonding skin to night’s air, penetrating Chevrolet safe havens drowned in lover’s spit.
My Mind thanks Google, enabling electronic bibles to leave disciples stifled with religious quotas, an excuse to quote us —
“Trouble at the Border, read the former court room reporter working for the, sensationalized, through remnants of blood stains in our eyes.”
Midway through Chapter 1 — reeks not only of of *** in the backseat — but of Venezuela’s shorelines. Of her high school hallways. Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor, her freedom amidst constraint, where Visas lease us advertising campaigns for maquiladora made lampshades.
Despite their protest, common sense lent comparisons, a consequence of stories told in reverse.
They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves, her long black hair straddling my shoulders.