you’re shriveled up like a raisin within my raisin-skinned right testicle in a XY body I’ve claimed possession of since a C-section slice when my mother gifted me life under the Scorpio sign.
At an Ocean Beach bar I want to forget, a fresh wave slams against you being born once a wavy hair brunette tsunamis her gaze away. She’s anchored to a future without us. I can read it in the sky’s Virgo and the Virgo in her eyes.
Without you scampering my genetic footfall across buffalo grass, you won’t feel your first cry or cut or sunburn under a July sun that drowns in cerulean wavelengths.
At the bent elbow of 45th and Noriega, I stride to buy a tallboy at J.M. Liquor.
Living room lights smile. With the Scorpio cluster glowing within my brain, a sunken couch swallows me in one gulp as I snack on raisins and slurp from the chilled can. When a frame of Full House flickers on, I change the channel to a herd of buffalo stampeding across the screen.