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


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    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.