vela has summer inside of her
bones and they are breaking
open for us and that's all we
really need to know about
summer says vela i do not like it
here, it is too cold for me. we turn
our pockets inside out and tell
vela what to do with our dream dust.
she says okay and cremates clocks
and assigns days colors like dried tobacco
or necrophilia or lice. (orange, black and
we get jealous of the pretty things
she does with our dream dust
and tell her to give it back.
she says no. (hell no.)
we make her scrub our floors
with the calluses on her hands
while we steal her brand of
we watch television.
vela tends the sheep.
i throw my intestines in the toilet.
vela sows what we will reap.
you burn the stove.
vela sweeps in and cuts the pasta
from our hair.
it is five seventeen on one of vela's
texas pete afternoons and she tells
us what she saw:
vela: god why are you smoking a cigarette
god: because they're aren't any suckers left
vela: what is your favorite flavor?
god: that isn't what i meant
and she asks us what that means
(no one believes in fairy tales anymore vela.)
but we just smack her and tell her
god is fat and only jesus smokes.
vela is pretty like burning kitchens are pretty.
vela is standing on our porch
and summer is inside of her bones
and they are breaking open for us
and that is all we really ever wanted