by Sarah Rodriguez
It is the summer of all this and more:
of sea-rising romance
and heat-curdled revelry,
of humid, floral insomnia,
of peaches, dripping in both hands,
of parallel comets burning parallel skies,
a fever’s dreamless destination.
Palm to forehead. Palm to cheek,
both cheeks
sunburnt, blushing,
our pink thoughts flooding over.
Each kiss: godless, inevitable.
The high holy days have passed
and we are earthbound now,
grounded, wingless
with solar ribbons around each wrist.
We plant marigolds in our collarbones
and call every moon a bonfire.
It is historical because there is no history,
only myths that glow on our skin
like a cinnamon marquee
with the opening dates of the apocalypse.
Here, in the sand-rubbed shade,
we sit too close together,
like mangoes in a bowl.
You tell me
love is not possessive
and I want to possess you wholly,
to hide in the hollow of your hurricane,
to gather all your shipwreck,
your wind-bruised citrus
your drifting caskets of wine
and shoot them into the sky
like a bouquet of orange blossoms
and fireworks
forming new, neon constellations
above these rising waters.
Sarah Rodriguez is a poet, educator, stage-practiced liar, bubblegum enthusiast, wine-led wanderer, failed manic pixie dream girl, Atlantic Ocean runaway, and the editor-in-chief of Punch Drunk Press. She organizes, hosts, and performs at arts events all over the Front Range. Follow her on Instagram @sarahstarlight.