![]() With the boys my sex became neutral-a gear I shifted into before throwing open the long coupe door, swinging my legs to place both feet on the risk of pavement West Coast sound bubbling into a night otherwise country & silent, save the slow crunch of tire. My baby cousin a reckless angel next to me going dumb shotgun on the bench seat of my Oldsmobile when he still had teeth in his head, still had yet to touch flame to the underbelly of a spoon. Each one the same age, then, as his ghost now. Look: me behind the wheel in a brown boys' radiant procession of candy paint. Nor the time we get lost & disappear into the dark part of morning hours cuffed on a curb for refusing to let them search our bodies for a wickedness that isn't there, how they came & went that time, unable to touch us like unclean beings wandered into the wrong realm. I don't mean the dips we take, the smoke in twisted wisps hovering near quiet lips sheets of white brick beneath the floorboards. & this isn't code between my phantom love & I for when we meet in a shadow near the Downs & I vanish behind his illegal tint. I don't mean the midnights I steal at fifteen, floating air & fuel down Dixie Hwy, under the streetlamp's orbed glare invisible after I slip my 1988 Cutlass Supreme Classic from my father's driveway. ![]()
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