Speak of the devil and he’ll play through the radio
or over the loud speaker at prom. When he left,
he placed rainclouds in the bags under my eyes
and thoughts of the Lake beneath my skull.
I thought about the polka dot swimsuit I wore
that matched my yellow sandcastle-bucket, and I thought about
that boy who wrapped himself in an aquamarine blanket
and dreamt about felicity.
They say drowning is a tranquil way to die
a simple resignation
like wandering naked and alone into the desert
to let the grains of sediment roll over your eyelids while you sleep.
I tried it once, my breasts hidden
under waves of auburn asinity crashing against my rib cage.
The bottoms of my feet were charred within minutes
and my legs gave out, leaving me stranded next to a cactus
and your eyes reflected in the sky. I hope that was a mirage.
Crawling through the scorching sand,
I tried to find some solace
in the distant illusion of a crescent moon,
hanging crooked like your smile.