I am engulfed
by the fluorescent lights.
I offend my own body
entering a room.
I am entering the motel room’s door.
I am listening to its resting breath.
I’ve been waiting for all of you
to arrive — to come home.
Here, come, undone.
Ezequiel and I carry a red backpack
while we are walking to the Motel 6
around the corner, away from the desert
marigolds and the yucca.
We are walking and listening
to the slosh of glass and metal;
to the crunch of foot and dirt.
We walk under the sun.
I’m in love with his safety.
The walk goes on and on.
He is exhausted, of course;
as am I. As we have
His safety is ironic
in that he is really a corpse;
in that I’m enamored with a dead man
is another conversation.
Before I say anything more,
Ezequiel and I are walking
in search for a plate of food.
My language here is a harrowed cause.
You only see the desperation.
Ezequiel is throwing the red backpack
onto the floor. I am removing my shirt.
We remove and remove and remove
until, finally, we arrive to nothing
The first thorn on my tongue
began here: on glass. Blue flame.
Blue sky. It begins at the end,
and I end and end
Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Carve Magazine, Rhino Poetry, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, Maudlin House, and others. He has received two Pushcart Prize nominations and has his first forthcoming collection of poetry, Burnt Spoon Burnt Honey, with Flower Song Press.
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