Moping About in Palm Springs
Spent the next three days sported on
The back of my dad’s bike: dark spokes,
Orange rim, yellow handlebars, a red and
Filleted heart more like a roasted bird,
Or the bike was exceptionally ordinary.
We were soaring through the ozone.
He was coughing up a lung or both.
To be unflappable and frantic. I smiled
And my skin was burning from the scorch
Of mistakes a daring Sun leaves behind.
I was his majesty and that’s whimsical
To briefly consider. He, my courter.
I, too infant to know how to fear a god.
My mom is clutching her chest, holds
A fear so ripe it cannot be caged in hands.
At times, I know so little about the mechanics
Of flight or, even, forgiveness. Except,
That I’m here giving my arms to the wind.
The sun brushing the very skin our backs.
Seeking the Blanket of the Sun
Or the moon.
Or the stars. Dead body
Of gasses scattered
Throughout the skies.
The centerfold to the living room
And dancing around –
All flesh and pure air.
The light pours in.
I stick out my tongue to taste
To this witnessing:
Legs trembling in sweat
— we’re tasting the
Red off plump cherries.
And how easy
I confuse taste for warmth
Vastness or abundance.
We’re moving, we rise.
We continue to make ourselves
Like the blanket
Of some warm sun.
Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Carve Magazine, Rhino Poetry, Cathexis Northwest Press, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, Maudlin House, and others.