Turn me loose on a square of sky. Give me a quiver
of fractal bodies. At dusk I cannot see you
through the creatures in my own eyes.
The Sahara has its red dust and I have a cobweb
of distractions, a webbing of salty dew. At most
you are a mirror for me. Rather, I put a mirror between us—
I see what I can of my reflection,
you see the mirror’s dull backing.
I cannot arrive for you, but the ensuing darkness
makes me calmer, kinder. I know you are more
than a hand on my hip. My signature move is sleep.
You ask for one kiss, I give you peaches,
the sweetest in the bushel. I ask you if you know
the troubles of crossing state lines with produce.
Caroline Cabrera is the author of The Bicycle Year (H_NGM_N Books, 2015), Flood Bloom (H_NGM_N Books, 2013), and the chapbook Dear Sensitive Beard (dancing girl press, 2012). She lives in Denver.